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Of course it happens during a board meeting, Tony thinks resignedly while fighting the urge to push a finger under the collar of his shirt and tug; the conference room suddenly unnaturally warm despite the state-of-the-art StarkTech air conditioning. Of course now, during a board meeting he can't just walk out of, not without sending the wrong kind of signal to the wrong kind of people who are already circling like vultures, waiting for him to stumble and fall.
They think he's an easy target because of what he is, and Tony doesn't even think about giving them the satisfaction of giving in to his nature and what people subtly try to tell him is his rightful place.
This is his company, his heart blood runs through it and the inventions he's made for it, the technologies he helped to develop, and he's going to fight for StarkIndustries until his last breath.
It still doesn't mean he enjoys sitting in a meeting while his body chemistry runs havoc and all he wants to do is to go home and wait for it to be over, his mind to take back control over his treacherous body and everything to be okay again.
Some of the Alphas on the board start shifting nervously in their seats now, despite the cologne that's supposed to mask the pheromones that are rolling off of him in waves. They probably don’t know yet what is making them so nervous, so excited, but that won’t be the case for long.
Tony swallows dryly. Sweat is starting to form along his hairline, and his clothes chafe irritatingly against his skin.
He knew this was coming, but he had clung to the irrational thought that the heat wouldn't start until he was home again, safe and sound and hidden away from public eyes. He's thought that for once, his body, his biology, would be on his side.
Pepper gives him a sharp look. She knows him too well, and she probably realized even before he did what was happening. Of course she knows what’s going on with him. She always does.
Tony is glad to have her in his corner, not many Alphas are willing to work as a PA for an Omega-submissive and simply take his orders.
Not that Pepper takes orders from him anymore, especially since he gave in to the ever-present outside pressure and made her CEO of his company. But Pepper is on his side and usually backs his decisions, and having her with him gives those decisions the power that Tony alone can't.
He still makes it clear that he's not taking orders from her, as often and as abundantly as he can.
When the meeting wraps up and everybody is happy and satisfied with the results, Tony's shirt is sweat-soaked and it's starting to get more complicated to keep his mind focused on the mundane day-to-day tasks. Pepper keeps on shooting him worried looks, her nostrils flaring slightly as if she's keeping tabs on him and his pheromones with her sense of smell alone.
She probably is. She probably memorized his cycle or had Jarvis do it, but to his relief, she doesn't say anything, just collects her stuff and sweeps out of the room after him, her stride long and full of purpose. Tony copies it as much as he can and ignores how his body wants to slink and writhe submissively.
The door to his office closes with a quiet click, and Tony slumps behind his desk. Here, in the privacy of this office, he can finally give in to the urge and loosen his tie without anyone thinking it as a sign of weakness.
"Tony," Pepper says, her voice gentle. "You need to go home." She's right, of course, and she puts enough authority in her voice to make Tony want to obey and enough gentleness to avoid triggering his stubbornness. It’s a tactic she’s practiced and perfected over the years of working with him, and it works like a charm.
He wants to go home.
He opens his mouth to tell her as much, to ask her to call Happy for him, but before he can say a single word, the small comm in his pocket chirps and his entire body jerks upright.
An emergency. The Avengers need Iron Man, and the villain they're facing doesn't like to wait for Tony's heat to be over.
He has to go.
Tony has, long ago, decided that while Tony Stark is an Omega, Iron Man isn’t. Iron Man is an Alpha and a Dominant, he doesn't take shit from anyone, and he sure as hell won't go down to his knees for anyone. In order to make sure his own nature won't get in the way of his resolve, he built in extensive systems that filter everything he can hear through the helmet and takes out the pesky frequencies that make him weak in the knees, and filter the air he breathes against the pheromones that have the same effect. The rest, he deals with by being extremely stubborn and everything a good Omega shouldn't be. He guesses he has to thank his father for that, at least - Howard cared more about Tony’s intellect than about making sure he behaved like a proper Omega.
In a way, it gave Tony more freedom than most other Omegas, but it also made his life more complicated than it could’ve been. Sometimes, he just doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, how he’s supposed to act, mostly when his instincts give him conflicting messages.
Like right now. The Omega in him wants to go home and curl up and just ride out the waves of heat, and the part of him that he channels into Iron Man and the co-CEO of Stark Industries wants to help the Avengers.
Natasha’s probably been right in her assessment that, while Iron Man is needed and wanted for the Avengers, Tony Stark isn’t. No matter how often and how loud Tony protests that it doesn’t make sense, that he is both, he knows that she’s been right about it.
Pushing that thought aside, he cuts power to the repulsors and lands, taking his spot in the circle of superheroes assembled to deal with a new threat.
“Really?” The word escapes him before he can stop them, and he sees no reason to bite his tongue after that. “Giant fluffy bunnies, that’s why you called us?”
Hawkeye chimes in. “What are we supposed to do, pet them into submission?” he wants to know with a nod in Iron Man’s direction.
Of course that’s the moment when the giant fluffy bunnies start shooting laser beams out of their eyes.
Coralling giant fluffy bunnies that are, in fact, giant fluffy robots in bunny form, is less fun than it sounds like, Tony thinks. He’s miserable, his entire body drenched in sweat by now, and it’s only the suit that hides the trembling in his hands, which is faint, but Tony can still feel it.
He knows that it’s only going to get worse.
For what feels the millionth time this day alone, he curses the unreliability of fertility suppressants. Their main purpose isn’t the suppressing of the cycle, of course, because that would be unhealthy, but to act as birth control, but the suppression of the worst of the symptoms is a nice side effect, as far as Tony is concerned. It’s the loss of control that he hates, not the fact that he is an Omega and everyone thinks they can order him around. Okay, that is annoying, but he has learned to deal with it, make people take him seriously or he’ll take his toys and go home. He has control over that much, but over his own body, not so much.
He is pre-occupied, and he blames that for the split-second of inattention that almost makes him fly into one of the laser beams the bunny-robots shoot out of their eyes. It’s not enough to hurt him, but it damages the suit enough for the outside world to get in, and the assault of sounds and smells, as far removed as he is from most of them, is almost enough to make him tumble out of the sky, the repulsors reacting sluggishly to his commands.
An inhuman roar makes his knees tremble and his last efforts to stabilize himself fail, but before he can even start to think about a way to re-start the suit, to save himself, he collides with a heavy weight and gravity is suddenly turned on its head. He needs a moment to realize that he’s caught in a surprisingly gentle green arm and pressed against Hulk’s chest.
Iron Man’s first instinct is to fight, to demand to be let go, to struggle against the tight grip he’s held in.
Tony Stark’s first instinct is to whimper, to rub himself against the wall of muscles he’s pressed against, and to let the Alpha surrounding him take care of him.
Of course, he doesn’t give in to that instinct. Giving in would make him seem weak, his business partners would take it as a reason to try and take his company from him, and Tony will not give up his company, even if it means that he has to swallow, lock his knees, and bite the inside of his cheek until the taste of blood covers the smell of his team mate.
Team mate, not business partner. It’s okay to relax around his team, they won’t take advantage. They’re not his business partners.
God, he needs a drink.
Sweat isn’t the only thing drenching his underarmor, he knows, and he aches with the need to be spread wide and taken, an Alpha’s body taking care of him and putting out the fire in him. The Hulk’s smell surrounds him completely, and he feels like drowning in it, blood rushing loudly in his ears and burning sharply on his tongue while his body shakes and demands and pulses, and it takes him a long moment to realize Hulk has folded him against his squatted-down body and is petting him, long gentle touches of strong, huge fingers against the unyielding metal of the suit, touches he can’t feel, and Tony is far enough gone that he wants the armor gone and those fingers on his bare skin.
They are still in public. There are still bunny-robots hopping around and wreaking havoc.
There are a million good reasons why he should get back on his feet, run a quick diagnostic on the suit and get back in battle, to help his team.
But for a long, long moment, Tony can’t think of a single one as he sits there, the faceplate of the suit pressed against Hulk’s chest. He’s never been so close to just giving in, to letting go of everything and letting someone else, an Alpha, take care of everything while he’s still in public, still Iron Man.
God, he really needs a drink.
It doesn’t take him long to snap out of it. As soon as Hulk lets go of him with a growl to jump right back into action, his hand lingering for a moment on Iron Man’s chest, he manages to pull himself together, blink the sweat out of his eyes, ignore the wet feeling between his legs and run diagnostics while listening in on the comm. Hawkeye has more fun than it should be legal, shooting the bunny-robots and watching them explode. He doesn’t exactly whoop with joy, but that’s probably just because of Coulson and Steve and the tense way they snap their orders.
Coulson’s a Beta, and although he usually manages to keep his unruly bunch of superhero-Alphas perfectly under control, his voice doesn’t have the same effect on Tony’s body as Steve’s does. Listening to him doesn’t make his heartbeat pick up, doesn’t make sweat break out on his skin, doesn’t leave him with this weak feeling in his knees.
Figures that the one Avenger Coulson really can’t order around so easily is the lone Omega in the room, Tony thinks with dark amusement, his teeth clenched against the feeling of losing control of himself. Between Thor’s hammer, Cap’s shield, Hawkeye’s arrows and the Hulk’s strength, the number of bunny-robots has already been decimated. There’s only a few more to go and he can go home, Tony thinks, he just has to hold on a little bit longer.
Just a little bit.
He can do that.
Coulson takes one look at and one barely noticeable sniff of him, and decides that the debriefing can wait for a few days, until Tony is over the worst of his heat.
Tony doesn’t even have a smart reply for that. He’s just thankful to get away so easily, even if it means being pulled close to Hulk again and petted, and since he’s just wearing his underarmor at this point, every caress and touch is like torture to his overstimulated nerves.
He doesn’t complain. He whimpers and curls up on his knees, Hulk’s huge body looming over him, and lets a single green finger run down from the top of his spine to the curve of his ass, again and again, until the repetitive motion has calmed Hulk down enough to let him transform back into Bruce.
It’s torture for Tony, who needs something more than the gentle touches right now, but he knows that Bruce isn’t willing and able to give it to him, not without seriously hurting him. Bruce is careful with him, both in his own body and when he’s Hulk, and he treats Tony with the kind of mindful gentleness an Alpha parent is probably supposed to take with their Omega children, not that Tony knows anything about it.
Under normal circumstances, Bruce’s touches and the careful measures of his breathing are enough to calm Tony’s mind, to let him settle like a good little Omega and bring him back to his own mind, away from Iron Man’s responsibilities, but today, it only makes him whine quietly, unable to stop the sound from escaping.
Good thing the board isn’t around to see him now. They would try to lock him out on principle alone, arguing that an Omega in this state would agree to everything, which could endanger the company.
Tony’s heard it all, and he’s always taken care - no matter how out of it he is, he only offered his company to another person once, and that was Pepper. He wasn’t even in heat that time, clear-minded and in control of himself as much as a dying man can be, which is to say, not very much, but at least he had enough control to offer the company to Pepper and not anybody else.
He knows he can trust Pepper.
Pepper, and his team.
Bruce inhales sharply, the sound bringing Tony’s circling thoughts abruptly back to the present and the fact that he’s still kneeling in the middle of a Hulk-proofed room, dressed in nothing but the flimsy and drenched underarmor.
“Tony,” Bruce says, his voice dropping almost an entire octave, “How long?”
He could pretend not to understand what Bruce is talking about, but that would only get him in trouble and it wouldn’t help him get what he wants.
“This morning,” he manages to say. His mouth is dry, his tongue feels heavy. “Boardmeeting.”
Bruce’s hand is cool against the back of his neck, and Tony shudders at the light squeeze. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Bruce mutters, but Tony’s sure it’s just a rhetorical question and he doesn’t bother to answer. He has other things to worry about - the way his body reacts to the close proximity of an Alpha, and the conflicting urges in him: he wants to spread himself out and beg, and he wants to run and hide someplace safe at the same time.
He hates it.
He wants it to be over.
“Come on,” Bruce sighs, “up you go.” He tugs gently, and Tony climbs to his feet and follows Bruce, meek for once, into the elevator where he plasters himself against Bruce and tucks his nose against the hollow at the base of Bruce’s neck, breathing in and letting the familiar smell soothe some of the itch away.
It won’t last for long, he knows that, but it helps him clear his mind enough to make him consider his options. He can hide in his room, or in his own lab, trusting his own fingers and whatever he can come up with to tide him through the heat, except that’s never enough and only leaves him aching for more; he can go out and find some Alpha who will fuck him, no questions asked, no harm done, except it’s dangerous and even if he wanted to leave, he’s not sure he could; or he can just stand here, let Bruce handle him and be a good boy.
Except, Tony Stark is not a good boy, never was and probably never will be, not even when he tries. He’s too independent, too stubborn even when on his knees, even when he wants to be on his knees.
The elevator stops before he can come to a decision, and Bruce more or less drags him out into the open space of the main living room. Bruce is stronger than he looks, and he has no problem with moving while Tony is clinging to him like a limpet. It’s nothing compared to Hulk, of course, but since Bruce usually gets compared to his alter ego, he gets underestimated a lot.
He should do something about getting dragged like this, Tony thinks. He’s not that far gone that he can’t put up a good show, one that fools most people.
But Steve takes one look at him from his seat on the couch and says, “Oh, Tony,” in that tone he has, and Tony folds himself to his knees without conscious decision, shuffles close and lets his chin come to rest on Steve’s knee.
“Huh,” he croaks and reaches up to scratch at the back of his head. He usually has more control over himself, even when he goes to his knees, he does it with more grace than this. “Please tell me you’re not gonna make me beg for this, Cap. Not now.”
Steve’s jaw sets, and his hand comes to rest on Tony’s shoulder.
“Oh, I’m going to make you beg,” he promises, his voice dark and sure. “Just the way you need it.”
Tony can’t help the excited shudder that runs down this spine and settles between his legs. He leans forward without thinking, his teeth in his bottom lip, but Steve’s hand on his shoulder catches him before he can press his face against Steve’s hip.
“We are not doing this here,” Steve tells him. “Up.” He tugs Tony to his feet, ignoring the smirk on Tony’s face, and gives him a slight nudge. “Your room. Wait for me there.”
Tony wants to argue, wants to tell Steve that there is a perfectly fine couch right behind them, and that nobody would mind if they started a little something right here, but he knows that it won’t work. Steve has strict ideas about how to treat an Omega right, and fucking on the couch, where people could walk in on them, are sadly not among those.
The urge to please the Alpha is getting overwhelming again, like a wave cresting in his body and drowning out everything else, stronger than almost anything he’s ever experienced before. Tony swallows thickly as he picks his way to his bedroom, fingers tugging at his clothes.
It’s a bad heat, the kind that made him hate everything and everyone except the cool logic of engines and computers when he was younger, the kind that still leaves him weak-kneed and gagging for the touch of an Alpha, for someone to take him apart and put him back together in a better form.
It makes him want to be good for someone else, someone not him. It’s not something he is used to, not on a day-to-day basis, and the conflicting emotions only make him try harder, fail harder, and hate everything about his cycle more.
He’s almost to his room when he runs into Hawkeye, and the clean Alpha-smell coming from him makes Tony’s head swim. He stumbles over his own feet, almost falls into Clint’s chest but manages to catch himself at the last possible second. He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t care, as long as Hawkeye’s hand stays on his shoulder, and when did that happen?
Tony doesn’t remember.
He’s further gone than he thought, apparently.
“Stark?” Clint is frowning at him, his nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. His body heat bleeds into Tony’s skin through the material of his underarmor, sending shivers down his spine and loosening his muscles. “Tony, are you drooling?”
“For fuck’s sake, Barton,” Tony manages to rasp out. “If I promise to make you those exploding arrowheads and that new bow you’ve been nagging me about, will you just shut up and let me do this?”
His knees are aching now, trembling to fold up and let him sink to the ground. Dimly, he is aware that Steve gave him an order, that he’s supposed to do something for Steve, that he’s being bad again, not doing what he’s told, but he can’t stop now, can’t go a single step further.
Even when he’s trying to be good, he still can’t quite get the hang of it, not even now.
“Depends on what you’re trying to do,” Clint quips, but his voice drops lower, and his hand loses its steadying quality when Clint presses down on Tony’s shoulder, urging him onto his knees and stepping closer.
Clint doesn’t hesitate or make Tony wait, and Tony doesn’t know if it’s the thrill of having him, of all people, on his knees that makes Clint’s breath go faster and his pupils dilate while one calloused, broad hand settles at the back of Tony’s head, holding him while Tony rubs his cheek against the front of Clint’s pants. The fabric is rough under his skin, and he wants it gone, but his fingers tremble too much to deal with Clint’s belt and zipper.
“Damn, Tony,” Clint mutters darkly as he slides his hand down over his own stomach. Tony rubs his face against it, instincts making him yearn for the smell of Alpha all over himself, and when that isn’t enough, he manages to catch two of Clint’s fingers with his tongue and draws them into his mouth.
Clint lets him.
“Exploding arrowheads,” he mutters, “and armor-penetrating ones, in case of robots.”
Tony whimpers around his fingers. The slick, liquidy feeling in his stomach and between his legs gets worse, and he feels empty and open. He needs something in him soon, or he’ll lose his mind, he’s certain of that.
Clint pushes his pants far enough down for his cock to spring free, half-hard already and perfect. Tony groans loudly and eagerly leans closer while one of his own hands struggles to dip under his own clothes. He doesn’t exactly know what he wants more, his own fingers on his achingly hard dick or in his hole, pushing deep and stretching him even more open, but before he can do either, Clint snaps his fingers in front of Tony’s face to get his attention.
“Hands,” he orders, his voice silky-soft and deep, and Tony has no choice but to obey that tone.
He’s not exactly sure whether Clint knows what his words are doing to him, but he does know that, if Clint were aware of it, he would already have asked for those arrowheads and the new bow, which is already done and just waiting for Tony to hand it over, weeks ago.
He likes pleasing his Alphas, even when he rarely does it right, but he also likes teasing Clint a little. Clint can take it and won’t make him pay in blood and arc reactor technology, yanked straight from his chest, for it.
The thought is like a bucket of ice-water and makes the mindless arousal ebb off for a brief moment, until Clint’s rough-tipped fingers close around his wrists and Tony’s circling thoughts come to an abrupt stop.
For a split second, he just hangs there, breathing hard while his eyes refuse to focus. He’s half-caught in the past, the feeling of Obie’s bulk looming over him, and half-crazy with heat, his body straining in one direction while his mind skitters away into another, and he’s not even aware of his breathing picking up until one of his wrists is released and Clint’s hand is back in his hair, holding him close with his fingers rubbing soothing circles into his scalp.
“Are you freaking out on me?” Clint asks, arousal and worry battling in his voice, but it looks as if the worry is winning out.
“No,” Tony manages. “I’m good. Just let me suck you.” He can do this, he knows he can and Clint likes it, and Tony won’t let anyone, not even Obie, who was supposed to take care of him, dammit, ruin this moment.
This is what he wants.
This is what he is good at, something a lot of Alphas have told him before, something Obie has told him a few times, back before Afghanistan. He doesn’t know how to act like a proper Omega, but he knows what to do with his mouth, his body.
Clint draws Tony’s hand to his own hip and curls his fingers around the sharp bone there. “Squeeze if it gets too much,” he orders. “Understood?”
Tony nods, already leaning closer again. Clint’s hand tightens in his hair, holds him steady, and Tony remembers to take it slow, make it good, even if he wants nothing more than to swallow him down until he has to gag, and then get on hands and knees and let anyone - Steve, a thought whispers at the back of his brain - fuck him, fuck the damn heat right out of him.
He rubs his lips against the tip for a moment, flickers his tongue out and just breathes in, but his patience doesn’t last long before he presses the flat of his tongue against Clint’s length, taking first the tip and then more and more in. The taste of skin and faint traces of soap assault his senses, and he lets his eyes fall close and focuses on the weight and shape of Clint in his mouth and under his fingertips.
Clint Barton, Tony decides after an unspecified amount of time later, is an asshole. He doesn’t let Tony do his thing, his grip on Tony’s hair is so tight it’s almost painful, and he is deaf to the begging whimpers that escape Tony’s mouth. He controls the exact depth of his thrusts and the speed, and it’s too slow, too shallow for Tony to lose himself in, especially now.
He’s almost certain there’s a puddle forming under him already. People might slip when they walk past.
They might drown if Clint doesn’t do something soon.
He tries to communicate that fact to Clint with his mouth still full, but the words won’t form around the hard cock in his mouth and he can’t make himself pull away, can’t even do as much as graze his teeth warningly against Clint’s flesh.
He’s not too far gone that he can’t hear the steps behind them, and even without turning around he knows that it’s Steve.
Steve, who has given him an order, and who expected Tony to wait for him in his room.
Tony imagines Steve’s disappointed look well enough that he can feel it at the point between his shoulder blades, penetrating his clothes and burrowing in his skin and flesh like little, tiny pieces of shrapnel intent on killing him.
He wants to apologize, wants to crawl to Steve’s feet to make him forgive him, but Clint’s hands are still in his hair, and he can’t pull away, can’t even turn his head, unless...
His fingers dig into warm, sweaty skin, short nails scratching and leaving red lines behind as Clint lets go of him as if Tony’s on fire, and Tony is caught, for a split moment, with the freedom to lean forward and take him deep, or to pull back and face Steve’s anger. He almost lands on his ass in his indecision as to which direction to move in.
“It’s bad,” Clint says with a wince and takes a step back towards Tony, letting him lean his forehead against his bare hip and stroking his fingertips through Tony’s hair. “This time.”
They are talking about him, Tony knows, he has ears and he’s present, but he doesn’t care about the words, only cares about the need building up in him, trying to pull him apart at the seams and leaving him broken and useless.
“Bruce said that,” Steve replies with a sigh. Tony wants to crawl over to him and rub his face against Steve’s legs, against his groin, but he stays where he is, looking from one man to the other from under lowered lashes.
If he’s honest, he wants both of them. He is a greedy man, used to getting his way, one way or another, and he wants both Steve and Clint at this point and he’s not going to stop until they stop and see things his way, that this is the best solution for everybody.
Tony is an Omega, but he’s also a genius, and he knows what he has to do to get things that he wants. Mostly, he achieves his goals by acting as much like an Alpha as he can, but occasionally, he uses a completely different tactic.
Like now. Pressing himself against Clint’s leg and rubbing his face against the rough jeans under his cheek, he lets out a choked whimper and looks at Steve with wide, begging eyes.
Neither of them can refuse him, he knows that. Clint takes his responsibility as Alpha just as serious as Steve does, and both Alphas can’t fight their instincts when they see - and smell - an Omega in heat and begging them, not when it’s Tony.
Steve swallows visibly at Tony’s display, and Tony ups the ante, spreads his legs and arches his spine, his tongue flickering out to run over his bottom lip.
“Tony.” Clint’s nails feel good against his scalp. “Hey, Stark, you gotta tell us what you need. What you want,” he says, enough of an order in his voice to send a tingle down Tony’s spine, a tingle that ends with another burst of wetness between his thighs.
“You, both of you,” he says. His voice is raspy, but he doesn’t even notice. He’s so close to getting what he wants, and even if he’s not quite sure of the exact probability of them agreeing to his plan, he knows that it’s high, somewhat around seventy-five percent. Jarvis would be able to tell him exact numbers, but Steve is looking at him now and Tony’s thoughts focus.
“Want you both in me,” he says, need making his stomach tighten and his hands tremble. “Please.”
It’s a calculated risk, adding that plea, because Tony Stark usually has more pride than to beg so early in the game, and there’s always the risk of the Alphas thinking their Omega is playing them and needs to be taken down a peg, and Tony isn’t into pain play. But Steve can’t resist him when he looks at him like this, and if Steve’s on board with this plan, Clint will get along too, and then Tony can finally get both of them in him and hopefully get some of his coolness and sanity back, at least temporarily. He needs to fix the Iron Man suit, there’s a project for Pepper he has a deadline for, and he can’t think about either when he’s compromised by biology.
“How?” Steve asks, eyes wide and innocent, and under different circumstances, Tony would revel in the chance of describing, in great detail, what he’s imagining, but not when he wants - needs - to get fucked. He doesn’t have the patience to mock Steve for being old-fashioned for never even thinking about sharing an Omega, not even when he’s actively doing it.
Clint makes a soft noise at the back of his throat. “I think I have an idea for that,” he says, his voice dropping half an octave, hitting the perfect pitch for Tony’s hips to thrust into thin air without him being able to do anything about it.
“No fighting.” Steve’s voice is calm, but he can out-dom a lot of other doms and make them follow his lead, and Clint is no exception to the rule. He dips his head down, accepting Steve’s terms without saying a single word; accepting that Steve’s the one calling the shots for this little tryst. Tony would laugh if he weren’t so out of it, so hot and desperate for touch right now.
“Tony, up,” Steve says, his voice steel and velvet, and Tony’s knees wobble and he needs to cling to Clint’s chest while he struggles to follow Steve’s order.
He can follow orders. He can totally follow orders, especially when they get him what he wants, and what he wants right now is for Steve to be happy with him so that he can get fucked.
“Your room,” Steve says, ushering them through the door and stopping to close it carefully while Clint distracts Tony with a deep kiss and strong fingers around his biceps.
And then, Steve is pressed against his back, his lips cool against the nape of Tony’s neck, his hands strong on his hips, and he can’t stop the little thrust of his hips, rubbing himself against Steve.
“You promised,” he says, the words half-muffled by Clint’s mouth against his, “Steve, you promised...”, all the urgency burning in his blood like sweet torture, and Tony’s head swims with the knowledge that he’s surrounded by two Alphas who will take care of him and make sure he’ll get what he wants.
What he needs.
Steve and Clint will take care of him, and they will not take advantage of him, won’t try to pry StarkIndustries from his fingers, he can trust them to do this right. He doesn’t need to rely on his own fingers and toys to get him through this, he doesn’t need a stranger and all the risks and dangers that brings, even with Jarvis keeping an eye on him.
He can just let go of all the expectations and worries that he has and let them handle him.
At least for a little while.
Steve’s fingers settle on his hips and pull him back against him, and Tony lets out a breathy sound that’s too weak to be a proper moan and lets Steve peel the shirt off of him, lets Clint trace rough fingertips across his chest and sides.
Just like the rest of the Avengers, Clint knows to stay away from the reactor. Only Steve can trace the smooth edges of where it’s embedded in Tony’s chest, and only with Tony’s express consent, which he doesn’t give often. The others keep their hands away and focus on other spots of his body, like his nipples, teasing them and brushing fingertips across them until they are aching for a firmer contact.
Clint kisses him again, wet and deep and with his tongue pushing deep into Tony’s mouth, possessive and easily controlling the kiss. Hands push at his pants, push them down, and they are already tangled around his knees when Tony really realizes that Clint and Steve are actually working together on this.
It sends a shiver down his spine, knowing that these two Alphas are here for him, because of him, that they are not fighting and not posturing because they all know what is going to happen and why.
They are a team, they are there for each other, and Tony, Tony is here for all of them.
He’s theirs. He belongs to them.
He wants to belong to them.
He’s also so hard he hurts.
Steve’s breath is hot against the shell of his ear, his fingers are precise and perfect and they slide just right into him, no resistance, not that Tony’s surprised about that. He’s been leaking for hours now, he is wet and desperate and aching for it.
“Tony,” Steve says, his voice firm and barely loud enough to be heard over the rush of blood in Tony’s ears. “Did you take your suppressants today?”
Tony blinks sweat out of his eyes and turns his head to the side, catching a glimpse of a worried frown on Steve’s face. He licks his lips and manages a nod.
“Good. Good boy.” Steve twists his fingers, pushes them deep into Tony and scissors them. The praise makes Tony shiver and push back against him, and then, Clint kisses him again, his fingers holding Tony’s skull in place and at exactly the angle Clint wants him at.
Tony’s vaguely aware that they’re shuffling toward his bed, Clint moving backwards and pulling him along, Steve making sure they’re not running into any stray pieces of furniture.
Clint gently nips at the tip of Tony’s tongue with his teeth and pulls away from the kiss. “Stay,” he murmurs, wipes his thumb along Tony’s bottom lip and crawls up to the headboard, where he wriggles out of his pants and spreads his legs. “Come.”
“Already?” Tony manages to joke, but he’s already crawling onto the mattress and settling on his hands and knees between Clint’s spread legs.
Clint grins and runs his fingers through his hair. “You know what to do,” he says, his voice fond and almost gentle, as gentle as someone like Clint Barton is ever going to get, Tony thinks.
He knows indeed what to do, covering his teeth with his lips and taking Clint’s dick into his mouth. Again, it’s not exactly what his body wants, just like Bruce’s gentle touches, but he’s trying to be a good boy and following orders.
Plus, there’s still Steve.
Steve, who’s kneeling behind him, close enough for Tony to feel his body heat, and who tilts Tony’s hips up, lines up, and carefully and slowly slides into him.
The sudden stretch is intense, almost painful, despite Steve’s care, and it’s exactly what Tony’s body wants. He pushes back into Steve’s gentle thrusts as much as he can without releasing Clint from his mouth, wordlessly urging him on to move faster, harder, deeper.
This.
This is what he needs, what he’s been needing ever since he realized that he’s in heat.
He’s surrounded by Steve and Clint, their hands on him holding him down and submissive, their bodies making sure he gets what he needs, filling him and sending sparks through his nerve endings. He feels like flying, like being Iron Man for the first time, invincible and great and desperate all wrapped into one hard ball of arousal and feelings deep in his body, filling him until his toes and fingertips tingle with it and every touch from Clint or Steve is enough to make him moan and whimper and arch into the contact with them.
It’s almost too much. His own dick is hard and heavy between his legs, his balls tight and drawn up, and he is ready to let go, his entire body humming like a live wire.
He’s alive and he’s perfectly fine and everything is as it is supposed to be.
He clenches down around Steve, dragging a broken moan out of him, and tries to get him deeper, but Steve’s holding him tight with both hands on Tony’s hips.
The bitter salty taste of pre-come slides over his tongue when he pulls back to lick at the tip of Clint’s dick, hot and thick in his mouth, stretching his lips just the way Steve stretches his ass. One of Clint’s hands lets go of Tony’s hair to wrap around the base of his dick, squeezing, and Tony takes him back in until his lips brush against fingers, and he doesn’t get up again until Clint’s hand is wet and slick and glistening with saliva and pre-come.
He can’t focus on sucking Clint properly, just pulls back, lets his tongue flutter gently against the tip while spreading his legs wider and taking Steve deep, but Clint doesn’t seem to be bothered by it. He’s running his hand through Tony’s hair, lets it rest heavily against the back of Tony’s neck, warm and sweaty, and sweat is pouring off of Tony’s body, collects at the bend of his knees and elbows, burns in his eyes and slicks his back.
Steve’s thrusts are barely hard enough to satisfy the burn in him, too shallow to reach the origin of his arousal, but it’s better than anything he’s had all day long, and Tony curls his fingers in the sheets under his hands, pants against Clint’s length and meets Steve as much as the hands on his hips let him, his desperation to just come getting sharper and sharper, the taste of raw arousal at the back of his throat growing more and more pronounced.
He needs to come; needs it so badly he can’t focus on anything else. It’s a good thing Clint is there, keeping a hand on Tony’s neck and holding him in his position, or he would try to be disobedient again, Tony knows it.
Clint leans down, his body curled around Tony’s. “Make Cap come,” he murmurs, his voice close to Tony’s ear, “make him come, Tony.”
Tony’s forehead comes to rest against Clint’s hip, his breathing reduced to gasps and pants as he clenches his body around Steve as much as he can and arches his spine, his shoulders lowering into a more submissive position.
Steve’s old-fashioned, born in a time when Omegas were, more than now, expected to act a certain way. Tony knows which buttons to press, how to manipulate Steve into fucking him harder and faster, and even when Steve’s aware of what Tony’s doing, he can’t resist the visual of a submissive Omega in front of him.
He knows that Steve knows what he’s doing, because even with his thrusts speeding up, Steve never loses control, never fucks him harder or deeper than he can take. It makes heat bloom through Tony’s chest, and when rough, battle-calloused fingers close around his hard dick and stroke it, once, twice, he comes, fireworks sparking through his nerve endings. He’s vaguely aware of Steve pulling out of him, of warm skin under his mouth, of air rattling in his lungs, and then, Steve runs a broad hand down Tony’s spine in a soothing, shuddering caress, and Tony’s muscles turn to wet noodles, weak and shivering and unable to hold him up any longer.
It won’t last for long, he can already feel it. Not until someone really takes him deep and satisfies the burn that’s barely banked by his orgasm.
Over his head, Steve and Clint exchange words, a quiet affirmation by Steve that Clint is okay, Clint’s answer - “he bit me!” - but Clint’s hands are still in Tony’s hair, relaxed and not-angry, and Tony knows he’s forgiven.
Or he will be.
Steve drops an affectionate kiss to Tony’s shoulder, followed by a gentle brush of his hand as he turns toward the bathroom, and Tony smiles, a peaceful feeling clinging to him.
It won’t last. It never does, not for another two or so days, until this is over and things can return to normal again - as normal as things ever get, with the Avengers.
Clint nudges him. “Hey,” he says, and in the half-dark of the room, his face is soft and gentle, the sharp focus of his eyes dulled by shadows. “Hey, you done already?”
Tony opens his mouth. “Fuck you, Hawkeye,” he growls, but the spark is back, itching under his skin.
Clint smirks. “That was the plan,” he says and sprawls out across Tony’s pillows. “You wanna ride me?”
Under different circumstances, Tony loves this position, because it gives him more control than being on his back - not that he can’t totally work that, too. But Clint is a controlling fucker, and his grip on Tony’s hips is hard enough to bruise and it controls how much Tony can actually move, how much he can take.
Tony doesn’t regret that he bit Clint, even if he wasn’t consciously aware of doing it at that point. If he rises up and looks down, he can see the bruised shadow of the bite on his thigh, and it sends a wild thrill of satisfaction through him, knowing that he left a mark like this, at the same time as Clint fills him up, gliding in and out of Tony easily without the need of lube.
“You’re really far gone, aren’t you?” Clint murmurs roughly, one hand sneaking away from Tony’s hip to his dick, wrapping around it and stroking it. It allows Tony to buckle down harder, take him deeper, and he does so, winding his arms around Clint’s neck and kissing him, lips and tongue and teeth and the faint taste of blood and mint and precome between them.
Clint’s hand, the one not trapped between them, wraps around Tony’s back and holds him close, keeping him in an embrace that’s almost too tight and again stops Tony from just taking what he wants.
“Do you want that bow or not?” he gripes against Clint’s lips, squirming and straining.
Clint just laughs. He knows just as much as Tony who is in control right now, and it’s not Tony.
They’re both okay with that.
Tony comes with Clint wrapped around him, with his own arms tight around Clint’s broad shoulders, his toes curled and his forehead sweat-damp against Clint’s temple, the smell of Alpha wrapping around him like a blanket. He moves when Clint prods at him, lets the other man clean him up and whisper soothing words at him, and he doesn’t protest when the blanket is pulled up to his shoulder and the order “Sleep” is given to him.
He stays where he is, but after a while, he turns onto his stomach, reaches into his bedside table to pull out the tablet and starts tinkering with the suit’s schematics. He won’t be able to focus on implementing any of the changes right now, but that doesn’t stop him from jotting down notes and calculations.
When Steve knocks politely on his door and comes in, he finds Tony like that.
“You’re supposed to rest,” he says.
Tony hums an answer. “Five more minutes,” he says absent-mindedly and roughly sketches out a circuit diagram. “Almost done, dear.”
Steve doesn’t reply verbally, but he comes closer and sits down on the edge of the bed and reaches out toward Tony, his palm resting low on his back and rubbing gently. The effect is immediate as heat spikes through Tony’s entire body, and he almost tosses his tablet off the bed in his haste to kick off the sheet and spread his legs for Steve.
Steve slides deep into him without much prep, his hips pinning Tony down. He doesn’t hold back as much this time, his thrusts deep and harsh and his lips soft and gentle against Tony’s shoulder and neck. His fingers tangle with Tony’s, anchoring him, and he doesn’t pull out when he comes, doesn’t leave. He simply shifts to the side, to avoid crushing Tony, and as soon as Tony’s heart rate is back to a normal pace, he starts again, bringing him to the edge and letting him tumble over, making him beg like he promised, only to catch him and hold him and make sure Tony’s fine.
“Think you can sleep now?” he murmurs drowsily into Tony’s hair and kisses the spot behind his ear that makes his knees go weak and something in his chest ache fiercely.
“Will you stay?” he asks back, floating and not caring that he sounds like a whimpering Omega, docile and devoted and simple-minded.
“Of course,” Steve promises and kisses him again. He gets up and brings Tony a glass of water, and he hovers next to him until Tony obediently drinks all of it before handing over the washcloth he also brought so that Tony can at least wipe off the worst of his come and slick and sweat. When he climbs back into bed, he folds himself protectively around Tony, holding him down with his body and burrowing his nose in Tony’s hair.
He should find it annoying, the stifling closeness of another human being settling in to stay the night, but instead, Tony relaxes, presses himself more firmly against Steve and dozes off, his mind clear and calm for once.
“We shall assist our friend in his plight,” Thor swears solemnly at breakfast. “And give him the fulfillment he craves to return to the Man of Iron and we shall make sure he is well.”
Tony makes a small sound into his folded forearms at that, but he doesn’t move otherwise from his slumped-over-the-table state until Natasha’s toes poke him in the side. It’s still early by his standards, his brain still tangled up in endorphins, hormones and heat and he’s only up because Steve is up, and the reason why Steve’s not in Tony’s bed and sleeping or fucking him slowly is because he has to head over to SHIELD for a briefing.
“Coffee, Tony,” Natasha orders, interrupting his meandering thoughts. “For Thor and me, too.” She puts enough steel in her voice to force him upright and toward the coffee machine, even when he’s limping slightly.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Steve promises, still uncertain, his eyes flickering from Thor to Natasha to Tony and back.
“Do not worry, Steven,” Thor says and watches as Tony slides a full mug of coffee onto the table, next to his elbow. “We will take good care of him.” He presses his hand briefly to the small of Tony’s back, a wordless praise for being good that lets Tony breathe more easily.
“You sure you’ll be fine?” Steve asks, but Tony just grunts and glares at him over the rim of his own mug.
“Make sure you eat something,” Steve adds and reaches out, to touch Tony as well. Tony would complain about Steve’s motherhenning, but he doesn’t have the energy yet.
Maybe he will do it later.
But then, maybe not.
***
It hasn’t taken the Avengers long to realize that touch works like a charm to make Tony shut up, stop fighting and become very agreeable, but that Tony won’t let anyone get close enough to just casually touch unless he is the one initiating it and controlling it, in which case it loses a lot of its magic. Tony knows it too, knows that they have figured him out, but to his own great surprise, he isn’t bothered too much by them knowing about his Achilles heel. They still respect him and his boundaries, and none of them tried, so far, to steal or touch his arc reactor, which is a huge step up from the last Alpha he allowed himself to trust and touch him, not counting Pepper. Pepper is special, she’s perfect, and she’s the only person in the whole wide world he actually lets reach into his chest to fix the reactor. He still keeps some secrets from her, things he thinks she doesn’t need to know, but he trusts her with his life and his heart and his reactor, despite knowing how much she could break him if she wanted to.
The thing is, Tony doesn’t let go of his control so easily, not even with the Avengers or Pepper. When they decide that he needs to be taken down to stop his genius mind enough to let his body catch up with it, it’s usually a group effort, negotiated beforehand to make sure he’s comfortable with it.
A heat is just like that, except there usually isn’t much time to re-negotiate boundaries. They still weather it together, the team rallying around Tony and protecting him from the outside world as much as he lets them, dominating him until he puts a stop to it.
He might be an Omega-submissive, but he really has a problem with feeling helpless. It’s a really thin line between being taken care of and being helpless, and a lot of people have overstepped that line with him, without them even noticing it.
As soon as Steve leaves for his briefing with Director Fury about the bunny-incident from the day before, Natasha calmly reaches out and wraps her hand around the back of Tony’s neck. She steadfastly ignores his flinch and waits until he’s settled and his heart stops beating a wild staccato against the casing of the arc reactor and his ribs, then she orders, “Get a cushion.”
Tony holds still until she releases him, then he stumbles off.
This isn’t the first time he’s doing this, and he knows that he can tell Natasha no without getting punished too severely. The worst she did to him so far, without his express permission, has been stabbing him in the neck with a needle. He’s tried to forgive her for that, but it takes time.
He likes sitting at the table with the others, slouching like Hawkeye, the only Avenger who sometimes pretends to be human and not some kind of supersoldier with a ramrod spine or a demigod with perfect posture, and more often than not, the others respect that and let him be when he actually shows up for breakfast, or any other meal, really.
Natasha making him kneel like a proper Omega-submissive is not unexpected, though. She has a series of strict rules for him, rules she allowed him to review but that she ultimately expects him to follow. Since they only cover the time Tony willingly comes to her to be taken down and out of his skull, Tony usually does his best to obey them and tries to keep at least a little distance between himself and Natasha the rest of the time.
It’s her way of taking care of him, he knows, now that he’s part of her inner circle, her team and kind of her family, and he sinks down next to her, his eyes lowered and his spine perfectly straight.
If Obie could see him now...the thought makes him grimace and shiver. True, it was Obie who started to teach him this, when Howard was too busy to do it himself, and a small part of Tony, the part that isn’t still busy feeling betrayed when he thinks about Obie, is glad for the lessons beat into his brain because they mean Natasha is happy with him now, humming quietly under her breath and wrapping her fist into his hair to keep him anchored.
The contact is enough to keep him calm for the moment, his body still feeling the twinges from Steve fucking him through the mattress, and he idly thinks about some of his projects down in the workshop, careful not to drift away too much. He knows he will lose his posture when he gets really carried away, and Natasha’s list of punishments and corrections are long and creative, not that she’s ever needed most of them. They work pretty good as deterrent, too.
Natasha snaps the fingers of her free hand and Tony’s eyes snap open immediately. His entire body stiffens until she tugs his hair again.
“Clint,” she says, her voice soft but with steel in it. It works on Tony, makes him jump to attention as if bitten, and it works on Clint too, because he doesn’t protest, just hands over the plate he’s holding.
“Eat,” she orders Tony and hands him piece after piece of toast, already cut in bite-sized triangles. It’s bland enough to avoid the cramping that most food gives him during the heat. Tony accepts them gracefully and chews slowly.
Before the Avengers, before he allowed himself to let go like this, he used to spend the days of his heats not eating anything, and it made him feel even weaker and more out of control. When his team found out about that, they quickly and efficiently took over and made sure to change that.
Clint stops next to Tony and reaches down to flick his ear teasingly before taking his own spot at the table. Natasha’s hand doesn’t leave his head, and for a short moment, Tony is almost content despite the hum under his skin that will soon threaten to overwhelm him again.
Natasha and Thor talk above him, about him and the mission from the day before, and Tony listens with one ear while allowing his mind to drift a little.
“Bad heat,” Clint tosses in at one point. “Started too quickly, took too much out of him already. Look at him.” He grimaces. “Poor guy.”
Tony wants to take offense, and he knows he would if the words came from anyone else, but this is his team. They deserve his obedience, he thinks.
“Bruce’s looking into it, trying to find something to ease the strain,” Clint adds after another bite of food. He’s aiming for a bored, uninterested tone, but for once, the greatest marksman in the world misses his target. He sounds more worried than bored, and a warm, strange feeling shivers through Tony’s stomach.
He doubts it has anything to do with the toast.
Maybe he’ll give Clint the new bow as soon as he can get enough control over himself to slip away to the workshop without wanting to invent a whole array of new sex toys.
After breakfast, Natasha orders Tony to come with her to her room. She lets him wait on his knees while she brushes her teeth and untangles her hair, and then, she lets him crawl close and press his face into her bare skin, lets him kiss a trail up the inside of her thigh and doesn’t stop him when he pulls her underwear down with his thumbs hooked carefully in the waistband. She tangles her fingers back into his hair, her touch cool and soothing against the hot skin of his neck, and guides him into a rhythm she likes.
Tony knows what he’s doing with his tongue, teasing her gently and licking softly over the warm wet folds of her sex, careful not to apply too much pressure when he knows she doesn’t like that, not yet. His tongue licks and circles, following the rhythm she sets with her hips and her hands.
His own hands are curled around her thighs, thumbs petting idly at the soft skin at the inside of her knees and feeling the powerful muscles under his touch, but they stay relaxed and he stays in his position on his belly despite the throb of want and arousal that centers in his groin and ass and the dull ache in his neck and jaw.
When she wraps her leg around his shoulder and traps him, he takes it as the signal it is and picks up the pace, bringing his fingers into play and slowly sliding them into her.
Natasha doesn’t protest, the only sound escaping her a quiet hiss, and Tony takes it as encouragement and doubles his efforts until she spasms around his fingers and tongue, her grip on his hair strong enough to register as pinpricks of pain that bring tears to his eyes, even with his arousal ratcheting up again and swamping him with lust thick enough to drown out everything else.
Natasha doesn’t let Tony fuck her. It’s part mistrust in his ability to be good and part worry about all the other people Tony allegedly slept with, he thinks, although it’s ridiculous. He’s always been careful, getting tested regularly and using condoms, no matter what he did. He’s an Omega-submissive, not an idiot, and the only time he let someone into his body without a condom before the Avengers - before Steve and Clint and Thor and Natasha, and Bruce, of course - was with Obie, and that thought is enough to make Tony’s own issues flare up brightly, his dislike of being used and discarded rising its ugly head.
Natasha hums again, her hands gentle now, and tugs him up until he’s kneeling above her, thighs spread wide and ass on display. She runs her fingers down the length of his spine, over his tailbone and into him, her fingers slipping easily into his hole and stretching him. She encourages him to rest his head against her shoulder and keeps up a steady stream of praise for him, “Good boy, good Tony, so open for my fingers, you’ve been a good boy, you deserve your reward,” pushing her fingers deeper, her other hand stroking down the length of his back and gripping his ass, encouraging him to roll his hips and thrust against her stomach, his skin slick and wet, and finally, she turns her head, her teeth sharp against the shell of his ear, and tells him, “Come now.”
The words come with a sharp twist of her fingers in him, and Tony arches his spine, trying to get her deeper, and comes with a strangled sound on his lips.
Natasha holds him through the aftershocks running through him and whispers praise, words he is going to scoff at in a few days but appreciates now. His muscles feel weak and barely able to hold him up and preventing him from falling down onto her. He doesn’t know how she does it - her fingers are smaller than his own, but much more satisfying. It’s a mystery he’s been trying to untangle for months now, but he suspects it has something to do with Alpha-pheromones, which are the reason letting an Alpha fuck him is the best method of getting through heat.
Natasha allows him to clean her up in the shower, and although the bathtub is hard and unforgiving on Tony’s knees, he can feel the weird warm feeling from before thrum through his bloodstream again when she washes his hair briskly and scrubs him down. She’s a strict mistress, but she knows how to take care of him, too.
Bruce finds him half an hour later sprawled on the couch and idly wondering what kind of toys he can hustle up to bridge the time until Steve’s back from SHIELD, or until Clint’s done on the range, or if he should go and find Thor.
Tony knows that Bruce won’t help him with his little problem, not without a lot of persuasion that Tony can’t focus on right now, because he’s too afraid of hurting him, but there is more to being an Omega-submissive than just spreading his legs for an Alpha, or in some cases when desperation really hits, a Beta. Bruce always lets Tony curl up next to him, and when the urge to submit actually manages to take over, Bruce takes care of that particular need without making a big fuss about it.
“Hey,” Bruce says and awkwardly shifts from one foot to the other. Unwilling as he is to give in to his and Tony’s baser instincts, he still can’t stop the effect that being in the same room as an Omega in heat has on his body.
Tony rolls his head until he can look at him. “Hey,” he replies and lifts a hand, to wave at Bruce. “Want me to go?”
“No.” Bruce shakes his head almost violently, but he hesitates before stepping closer to Tony and patting his shoulder briefly. “I was wondering...I need some of your blood.”
“Now?” Tony asks, but his arm is already stretched out, and he trusts Bruce not to leave too many bruises on him. “Go for it.” Belatedly, he realizes that he should ask what Bruce needs his blood for, but then, gloved fingers already take hold of his arm, and his thoughts degenerate into need and slickness again.
Unlike Steve, Thor has no problem with sex in public places. He’s working out when Tony tracks him down, already sweaty and hot, and when he catches sight of Tony, he puts the hammer down and beckons him closer without a word. Tony ends up on his back on the mat, Thor holding him spread open, his hands pinning Tony’s body down while his thumbs stroke the soft skin stretched taut over Tony’s hipbones. Thor is a god - a demi-god - and he takes what he wants with an air of assurance as if he has the right to do this. He doesn’t expect to be fought for dominance, especially not by Tony, and Tony feels too out of it to even consider a fight, even a playful one. He just hangs on for the ride and prays that all of this will be over soon.
Okay, he prays that the heat will be over soon, so that he can enjoy getting fucked again, because this, this mindless need that won’t let him think or act rationally is getting really old really fast.
Thor is a big guy, and he stretches Tony wide with each thrust, sending frissons of sensation along Tony’s nerves that make him want it even more and make him push back against Thor with reckless abandon. Every sensation, every touch is a thousandfold more intense, and Tony has long reached the point where he can’t discern between pain and pleasure anymore, he just needs relief.
He comes on a particularly hard thrust from Thor, his throat aching as he stifles a sob with a grunt and twists his spine into an impossible-looking arch, trying to get away from Thor and get him deeper at the same time.
He doesn’t know what he wants anymore. It’s too much.
He wants it to end.
Unaware of his thoughts, Thor continues to thrust into him, the tip of his dick raking against that sensitive spot inside Tony and making him feel as if he’s touching a piece of hot coal. He twists and snarls, but he can’t pull away, and before he can beg Thor to stop, the sensitivity and almost-pain gets overwhelmed by a fresh surge of arousal, a fresh wave of slickness easing Thor’s way, and Tony’s body strains into Thor’s thrusts instead of away from them again.
There’s nothing he can do about it. It’s what the heat does to him. Tony likes sex, has had a lot of it in his life, but this has nothing to do with liking it. This is too desperate, too raw, too much.
It scares him.
It is too much.
Thor’s fingers close around Tony’s dick and stroke him, a little too tight but slick, in the same rhythm his hips set. Tony knows Thor’s close, can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the ferocity of his thrusts, and every single muscle in his body strains up, into the touch, his body taking completely over as he moves faster and faster, into Thor’s touch and against his hips until his toes curl and a second orgasm makes him whimper while Thor shouts his release, loud enough to make Tony’s ears ring.
Thor rolls them over until Tony is resting on his chest while they try to get their breath back, still connected in the most intimate way, and Tony simply sprawls and tries to take stock of his body.
There are twinges, bruises and bites all across his shoulders, hips and thighs. He’s sore, his throat raw and parched. His ass hurts, his dick hurts, his head hurts, his entire body hurts. Even his hair sends out faint signals of pain.
“Are you well, svass?” Thor asks quietly and brushes a hand over Tony’s skull in a gentle caress so contrasting to his earlier thrusts that it makes Tony shudder weakly.
“I’m fine, big guy,” he says, but he doesn’t protest when Thor reaches out, grabs his water bottle, and hands it over to him, to take a few careful sips.
He doesn’t say anything when Thor sits up, runs his hands down Tony’s back and gently lifts him and brings him down again, but the feeling of Thor growing hard again in him makes him moan and cling to the Alpha’s shoulders weakly.
The pace Thor picks is slow and languid, heartbreakingly loving and gentle. He keeps one hand in Tony’s hair, holding him close, the muscles in his arms bulging as he moves Tony. There isn’t a single thing he needs to do, just let himself fall and trust Thor to hold him. It takes him a moment, but then he manages to let go and just float, cradled in Thor’s grip and safe.
Nobody would dare to take his reactor while he’s wrapped around Thor. Thor will protect him. There isn’t a single thing Tony has to fear.
He is safe.
When Steve returns from his briefing, he finds Tony in front of the TV with Clint and Thor.
He’s focused on the design on his tablet, taking advantage of a brief moment of quiet in his head, because as soon as Thor let him go inspiration about a new kind of explosive arrowhead stuck and he needs to write that down before he forgets it again. Clint would never forgive him if he did.
Clint is currently busy explaining something to Thor, something that has to do with the show they are watching. Tony’s attention drifts from his tablet to his team mates, and he can’t help but grin at the glint in Clint’s eyes - his assessment that Clint can be a bit of an ass and a troll is again and again proved to be right - and he doesn’t really notice that Steve is back until he’s right in his line of vision.
“Oh dear,” he says and grins, “long day at the office?”
Steve’s lips twitch slightly. He nudges Clint and sits down on the couch between him and Tony.
“Everything okay?” Clint asks, but the line of his shoulders tells Tony that it was mostly a rhetorical question. If there was an emergency, the Avengers would all be aware of it, not just Captain America.
“Yes,” Steve said. “There was some paperwork to take care of.” He sounds exhausted, Tony registers, and he leans against Steve’s side slightly as a silent show of support.
It’s not something he usually does. He has his reasons, but he’s in heat, and that means he can get away with some things, including giving in to his cravings for physical affection.
Clint snorts. “You did Tony’s paperwork, didn’t you?” he says. Steve doesn’t answer, but his ears start to turn a faint shade of red, and Tony leans more firmly against him.
“It’s unfair,” Clint complains. “Really, really unfair, nobody does my paperwork for me.”
“That’s because you don’t have a heat cycle,” Steve calmly says, not moved by the grimace Clint pulls or the fact that Tony’s clinging to him like a limpet. No paperwork means there will be more time for him to spend in the workshop, and Steve really is his hero and a perfect gentlealpha.
“Indeed, you are more than capable of handling your own missives,” Thor says, and Clint complains some more because Thor doesn’t have to write mission reports, not since he handed Coulson three hundred verses of an epic song to describe the glorious triumph of the Avengers over their ruthless and bloodthirsty enemies, a voracious group of mutated rats. It was, Tony remembers, a really epic song, and since that day, Coulson keeps a junior agent ready to transform Thor’s battle hymns from spoken words or song into reports that don’t leave him with headaches about filing.
Steve makes him eat, and Tony doesn’t really mind that much. After their initial snuggling on the couch, he also keeps a careful distance between them, as if he’s afraid of touching Tony and setting off his cycle again, which, Tony knows, is ridiculous. He will go through this no matter if Steve puts his hands on him or not, but Steve’s reluctance to get close to him makes him jumpy and nervous.
“What?” he finally snaps, his spine straight and his shoulders squared. If he did something to piss his Alpha - one of his Alphas - off, he wants to know what it is, and if it’s not his fault, he doesn’t want to be treated like this.
He thought Steve was better than that, and he can’t help the small hurricane of disappointment from ripping through his insides.
Steve blushes. He fumbles for words, doesn’t look at Tony, and looks over all so miserable and insecure that Tony almost wants to reach out and pat his head, to make him settle, the way his dad had done when Tony was still young and his brilliance was something Howard was proud of.
“Seriously, what is it with you?” he snaps instead and pulls back a step, until his spine is pressed against the fridge and he has nowhere to go but forward, and Tony does that with an attack fuelled by his rage about his inability to control his body.
Steve looks down at his feet and takes a step back. “There is a treatment,” he mumbles. “Experimental, Fury said. It could help alleviate the symptoms of a cycle...”
Tony narrows his eyes at him.
“Bruce is checking it out,” Steve adds quickly. “You don’t have to decide now, just think about it. If Bruce gives his okay for it. Think about it, Tony, okay?”
Tony doesn’t answer. He turns on his heel and leaves the kitchen, not caring if Steve follows him or not. He’s sure he’ll regret it later, when his heat acts up again, but for now, he needs to be alone, to try and puzzle out what Steve was trying to tell him.
What Steve wants him to do.
What Tony wants to do without any Alphas influencing him.
Steve’s weird behavior makes a lot more sense in that context, even if he picked a hell of a bad time for it, Tony thinks. As if there was much room for rational thought during the cycle, in the first place.
Tony is being stubborn. He knows he is, and he knows he doesn’t need to be miserable. He could just as well give in, find one of his team mates, and convince them with a whimper and a look to help him take care of this.
He doesn’t. He’s Tony Stark, he doesn’t need any Alphas, he can take care of himself, he has JARVIS and a well-stocked box of toys hidden away at the back of his closet, just like any other self-respecting Omega.
It never feels as good as having a living, breathing human being with him, but Tony spreads his legs, picks his favorite toy, and refuses to give in. His pride is battered enough by the heat, and it refuses to let him go to Steve now.
Tony knows he’s stronger than the heat, and even when he’s giving in to his body’s needs, he thinks he could survive without doing so. He’s survived three months in a cave in Afghanistan, hooked up to a car battery for God knows how long, and if pure determination isn’t enough to get him through his cycle, there’s still his thick-headedness.
“Steve said to leave you alone.” Clint is awake, sprawled out on the couch in front of the TV despite the late hour, and he doesn’t shy away when Tony flops down next to him and awkwardly tries to curl up on him without pulling attention to it. His hand comes to rest on the back of Tony’s neck, squeezing and holding him in place. “You okay?”
Tony grunts and presses his nose against Clint’s shoulder. He’s exhausted, but unable to sleep, which doesn’t really surprise him at all. It makes him irritable and it makes him seek the comfort of a strong, possessive hand holding him down, telling him that it’s okay, and while usually, Steve is the first person he goes to if he feels like this - there is nothing more reassuring than having Captain America telling him he did good - Clint is a good second choice.
For a long while, they sit in silence, the flickering light of the TV and the low murmur of the infomercial Clint is watching the only distraction from the warmth of their bodies. Tony listens to Clint’s heartbeat, soothingly steady, counts the beats, and tries to doze off.
“You know,” Clint says, his voice rough as his knuckles rub against Tony’s scalp, “Bruce is still up, if you want to try that new suppressant. He said it’s okay, that it’s most likely working out.”
It’s the middle of the night, they’re by themselves, and nobody is listening in and judging him. Still, it surprises Tony when he finds himself asking, “Do you want me to?”
He realizes what he’s asked as soon as the words hang between them, holds his breath and bites his lip while waiting for Clint to give a reply, probably something sarcastic that will make Tony snap back at him.
Clint only chuckles. “Doesn’t matter what I want, this is on you,” he says easily and falls silent again, his attention on a ridiculous piece of work-out equipment praised on the TV. Tony isn’t paying attention, but he’s sure he could design something better if he puts his mind to it.
Instead, he rolls his eyes and slowly climbs to his feet.
“You seem calmer,” Bruce says without looking up from his microscope. “Less...edgy.”
Tony snorts and leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “High-grade sex toys,” he murmurs and shifts slightly. “You’d be surprised what effect a good plug can have.”
Bruce looks up at that, a startled expression on his face, and Tony offers him a smirk that makes him feel more like himself than he has since this started. It’s been not quite forty hours, and if he’s lucky, it will be only a few more days, slowly tapering off after the third.
Bruce doesn’t quite roll his eyes as he turns back to his microscope. “Let me guess, you’re here because of the experimental suppression treatment Steve told you about.”
“Let’s say I’m curious,” Tony admits and pushes himself off the wall. “I thought StarkIndustries was at the cutting edge of suppressant research, light years ahead of everybody else.” He waves a hand to demonstrate how much ahead his company is of everybody else, in every sector they take an interest in.
Bruce shakes his head. “This is original SHIELD research,” he says. “But it checks out, I made sure of it. I contacted some old colleagues of mine, asked for a second opinion.”
Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. “Fury let you contact some old colleagues of yours about top secret medical research?”
Bruce shrugs, smiles. “Steve didn’t give him a lot of room to refuse,” he points out. “He’s worried about you.”
“Huh.” Tony doesn’t know what to think about that. He’s already known that Steve takes his responsibility as team leader and as Alpha extremely serious, but a heat cycle is something very ordinary and nothing to worry about, even Steve should know that. A lot of things have changed since he got frozen, but not this.
It doesn’t stop the warm feeling from spreading through his chest, and he absent-mindedly rubs a palm against the harsh edge of the arc reactor.
Bruce smiles and holds up a syringe. “Yes or no?”
Tony has made up his mind already, even if he needs a moment to admit it to himself. Still, he makes a show of thinking Bruce’s suggestion over, rubbing his chin and frowning, before he asks, “If I say yes, can I sleep with you tonight?”
Bruce isn’t used to having someone else in his bed, and it shows. He also kicks in his sleep, steals the blankets, and at one point in the night, he elbows Tony painfully in the ribs, making him wake up with a choked gasp for air.
Tony doesn’t mind. He’s curled up on his side, one hand pressed protectively against his reactor, the other curled under the pillow, and his body instinctively presses against Bruce as soon as he allows himself to relax slightly.
He doesn’t really get a lot of sleep, but the burn and ache of heat has subsided to a low hum that’s not more distracting than the fan of a computer about an hour after Bruce slipped the needle expertly into the vein in the crook of Tony’s elbow.
It’s probably about six in the morning, and he finally manages to doze off a little, when Bruce shifts next to him and Tony jolts awake again. In the almost-dark of the room, he can make out the shape of Bruce’s body next to him, but he doesn’t know if the other man is awake or asleep until Bruce hums quietly in his throat and wraps a sleep-warm and heavy arm around Tony’s shoulder, to hold him close. Bruce’s fingers move in soothing circles against Tony’s shoulder blade, slow strokes down the length of his spine, and he snuffs into Tony’s hair before stilling again. Tony holds his breath for a long moment, but when it’s clear that Bruce has gone back to sleep, he makes himself relax and enjoy the feeling of being cocooned in Bruce’s arms and blankets.
When he wakes up again, he’s alone, the blanket carefully tucked around him, clean clothes thoughtfully piled up on the counter in the bathroom. Tony breathes deeply, looks at himself in the mirror, and enjoys the fact that he feels better.
He wanders toward the kitchen in the search for coffee, entertaining vague thoughts of spending at least part of the day in his workshop. It’s a clear sign that he’s over the worst, that Bruce’s injection worked, and Tony is relieved about that.
He hates it when he feels so out of control.
Steve’s sitting at the counter, a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him, and he looks up at Tony with an unreadable expression on his face.
Tony gives him a polite nod and makes sure to sit down opposite Steve, out of reach, with his cup. Two can play that game, after all, and he does feel good about making a point of demonstrating that he’s better, that the worst is over, that he’s on his way back to normal.
“Captain.”
“Tony.”
This could get awkward quickly, Tony realizes, if he doesn’t do something quickly. Unfortunately, as soon as he opens his mouth to apologize for acting like a stupid idiot, the sharp chirp of an alarm interrupts him before he can say a single word.
Ingrained habit and instinct make him jump, his coffee forgotten, and head toward the elevator. An alarm means an emergency, means the Avengers are needed, and his armor is in his workshop. He just hopes that JARVIS managed to fix at least some of the damage when a strong hand grips his wrist and stops him in his tracks.
“Where are you going?” Steve is frowning at him, and Tony narrows his eyes.
“To get the suit,” he replies, his tone implying what he thinks about stupid questions like this one.
“You’re sitting this one out,” Steve tells him, his jaw tense and his eyes hard. “Due to your...situation.”
A good Omega-submissive would be glad to have an Alpha to take care of them, to make sure they’re safe and far away from any danger.
Tony only gets angry.
“Like hell,” he starts, but Steve only shakes his head.
“This is not negotiable, Tony,” he snaps, and squeezes his wrist briefly. “Stay out of trouble.”
It’s obvious what he expects Tony to do, what he hopes him to say, and Tony clenches his teeth until they hurt, and spits out, “Yes, sir.”
“Good boy.” He wishes the praise wouldn’t feel so good, despite his anger, and he stays where he is while Steve goes to put on his costume and then leaves together with the others.
When he’s certain that he’s alone, Tony exhales sharply and shakes his head.
Iron Man is not an Omega, not a submissive. Iron Man only follows Captain America’s orders because he’s part of the team, because every team needs a leader and theirs is the Captain. Iron Man wouldn’t let anyone talk to him like this, like Steve just talked to Tony, excluding him just because of biology. And Tony feels better, he really does, the itch under his skin almost completely gone. He’s fought while feeling much worse, not that Steve’s likely to be convinced by that argument.
Iron Man will not stay behind just because Steve thinks Tony can’t handle it. Not when Tony is certain that he can.
Decision made and fuelled by white-hot anger, Tony heads to his workshop to assemble his armor.
“Bunnies, again?” he says aloud when he arrives at the scene, hovering in the air and out of the way of the worst of the fight.
“It appears so, sir,” JARVIS replies, zooming in on one of the same giant robot-bunnies they’ve fought a few days ago. Its white fur is scorched black in places, but it is still moving.
It doesn’t take Tony more than just a few moments to realize that, while the bunnies do look the same as before, except maybe a little smaller, they don’t shoot lasers out of their eyes anymore. They seem to be just there, sitting on cars and on the ground, seemingly harmless.
They just sit there and stare.
For a long moment, Tony is confused. He doesn’t know what the threat is, why the Avengers were called, when these bunny-robots don’t really do anything, but then, from the corner of his eyes, he sees it.
The man is so painfully obviously an Omega-submissive, one searching for an Alpha if the way he is dressed is a sign. Even his haircut screams submission, and he’s the kind of person Tony usually doesn’t even pay attention to. He has more important things to worry about than these pathetic people who just wait for a strong Alpha to sweep them off their feet. Sometimes, he feels sorry for them because nobody ever really encourages these people to think for themselves.
Of course, Omega-submissives have rights like everybody else, they can pick their own Alphas and leave them if they want, but there still are these people who, despite all the opportunities open to them, don’t know how to take them and just wait for an Alpha to tell them what to do.
The Omega walks straight up to the nearest bunny, the one with the singed fur, and kneels down - elegant, probably practiced in front of a mirror, Tony thinks with disgust - to pet the bunny’s front paw and chest.
And then, after a long moment, he stumbles back to his feet and attacks the Alpha closest to him, which is, by coincidence or not, Captain America.
Captain America, who has this chivalrous complex of not hurting an Omega unless there is really no other way out.
Tony can see it clearly from his point: Steve doesn’t expect the attack, his attention focused on the other side of the street where more Omegas are clustered together, and the Omega storming toward him has well-manicured fingernails, long and sharp and painted a submissive shade of red.
Tony doesn’t take the time to figure out why his mind classified the pale red of the Omega’s nail polish as submissive, and what it says about Iron Man’s paint job. He swoops down like a giant metal bird of prey and grabs Steve with an arm slung around his chest, to yank him up into the sky and out of harm’s way.
There is no time to think. His heart beats a sharp rhythm, the arc reactor feels as if it’s growing heavier in his chest, and a spike of adrenaline makes the blood rush loudly in his ears. It’s a few seconds until he realizes he’s holding Steve too tight, that Steve might start to get trouble breathing if he doesn’t let go, at least a little, soon.
He loosens his hold and lets Steve drop down the few foot to the roof where Hawkeye is already perched, watching him roll upon impact and back to his feet while he lands himself, boots connecting with the roof with a loud clank.
The expression on Steve’s face is thunderous as he glares at Iron Man.
“Sir, I detect a faint emission of low-frequency sound and radiation coming from several spots around your current location,” JARVIS reports at the same second as Steve says, deceptively calm, “I thought I gave you an order.”
“Yes, you gave me an order, to stay out of trouble, guess what, I did. What kind of emissions?” For a split second, Tony considers snapping back the faceplate to glare at Steve, but he knows perfectly well that Steve only needs to give him an order in that tone of voice to make him crumble like a firewall under a concentrated attack or something like that, retreating with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs, and he forcefully reminds himself that Iron Man is not an Omega, not a submissive, and Captain America over there has no reason to order Iron Man home.
“By the way, I saved your ass there,” he adds, sounding petulant to his own ears, “that Omega would have eaten you alive.”
“Hate to say it, Cap, but he’s right,” Hawkeye calls out from his perch. “Look at that.”
Steve gives Tony a look that promises punishment and consequences later before tightening his grip on his shield and stepping closer to the edge of the building, Tony following him cautiously.
It’s pandemonium. There is no other word for it, Tony think as he takes in the scene, enraged people dressed like Omegas throwing stones and rocks and everything else they can find and pry loose at terrified Alphas, including Hulk and Black Widow.
Not that Hulk and Widow are terrified. Widow is doing her best to keep calm, to push the enraged Omegas back and protect the Alphas, together with Thor, and Hulk just growls. So far, it’s enough to keep the Omegas at bay, but Tony has the sinking feeling that it won’t stay this way and that something bad will happen soon.
“It appears they really go crazy for the bunnybots,” Hawkeye reports while staring off into the street below them. “Or because of them.”
JARVIS’ analysis seems to agree with Hawkeye’s observation, and suddenly, Tony is more than glad that he didn’t give in to the childish urge to bare his face to stick out his tongue at Cap or something equally as stupid. Opening his faceplate would mean getting exposed to this, and the thought of getting influenced into attacking Cap and Hawkeye is enough to make cold sweat break out across his skin.
“Can you interrupt their frequencies?” Steve asks, and Tony focuses on the data scrolling down in front of his eyes for a moment, trying to find a way to hack into the robots.
“I need more time for that,” he says. “More time than we have.” He can see the Omegas banding together and attacking people, and he’s very much aware that both Hulk and Black Widow are down there with them. They are great fighters, both of them, but if more Omegas attack, and if those get hurt...he takes a deep breath and deliberately stops his thoughts from going there. He knows how his team mates feel about people getting hurt, he knows about Bruce’s guilt and Natasha’s ledger.
“Right,” Cap agrees calmly. “Aim for the bunnies, then. If we take out as many as we can, will the effect be less strong, or even reversed?”
Tony tilts his head to the side. “If the unusual behavior of the people down there is caused by sound and radiation, I don’t see why not,” he says carefully. “I’d have to take a closer look.”
“No.” Steve’s voice is flat. “I’m not risking you going there to get a closer look. What if you get compromised?”
“I won’t.” The prickle of irritation about being doubted is depressingly familiar, Tony thinks glumly. It’s not as if he’s expected anything different from Steve, not after spending the past few days begging his team mates to take him harder, to order him to his knees.
It’s going to be a few more days until Steve stops treating him like spun glass; a few more days and a few well-placed jabs from Tony to make clear that he can take care of himself again. There’s precedence for his behavior, it’s in no way unexpected, and yet, it hurts, somewhere deep under the reactor.
“The suit protects me, and we need one of these things to find out where they come from,” Tony argues. “And if we can stand here and discuss it for hours, if you want, Cap, but in the meantime, Hawkeye is destroying all of them and with that, our chance to make this madness stop permanently.”
He’s right. He knows he is, can feel it down to his bones. Steve knows it too, if the set of his jaw and the way his hand tightens on the strap of his shield is any indication. He knows Tony is right, and he’s fighting with himself about sending an Omega out into a danger zone.
Tony shrugs and does what he does best: he takes the decision out of Steve’s hands by firing his thrusters and going, head over heel, down to street level, pulling into a tight arch that brings him close enough to the ground that he could pick up some of the rubble if he wanted.
He doesn’t want to.
Instead, he aims for the next source of emission, guided by JARVIS. Arrows rain down around him, but Clint isn’t the greatest marksman in the world for nothing, and none come close enough to do as much as scratch his paint job.
The comm crackles to life. “Stark, is there a way to jam their frequences?” Natasha asks. She sounds calm and perfect and not at all like someone in the middle of a riot.
“Nope, I tried that.”
“Whack, hack and stab job,” Clint comments and lets another salve of arrows fly. “Iron Man, go to your left.”
Tony rolls mid-flight and without thinking. He trusts Clint’s judgement in battle situations, and a short heartbeat after his maneuver, rocks start flying and pelting down on the armor, with a particularly nasty piece coming down in the spot he’d been just moments ago.
After that, it gets more difficult. Left, right, roll, sharp corner, cutting energy to the thrusters for a split second to avoid a collision with a thrown car - Hulk - and Tony lets his sensors, JARVIS and Steve, who took over for Hawkeye, guide him until he is close enough to one of the bunny-robots and cuts power for an elegant landing.
The bunny is smaller than the version with the laser beams, only reaching Iron Man’s chest, but from up close, it’s still somewhat terrifying. It’s giant nose moves slightly, and its huge black eyes focus on Tony, and suddenly, Tony just wants to fold himself up on his knees and stay there.
The urge is so irrational and so sudden that he almost gives in before he locks his knees and bites his lip sharply. This isn’t supposed to happen, he’s supposed to be safe in his armor, and Iron Man will kneel for nobody, especially not for a bunny.
A bunny that begs to be petted. Tony’s hand is up before he realizes what is happening, and then, he does the first thing that comes to his rebellious, misbehaving, badly trained Omega-brain.
He fires a blast straight into the bunny’s face, a blast strong enough to melt artificial fur off of gleaming metal and to make Tony stumble back a few steps.
The smell of burning fur helps him to clear his mind a little, or maybe he managed to break the thing and turn it off, he hopes - a hope that is quickly dashed when the robot blinks slowly, turns its head slightly until it is looking straight at Tony again.
Tony’s built robots since he was old enough to hold a screwdriver, and he knows that most engineers don’t bother with giving their products a personality. Tony’s different, of course - he doesn’t know what he would do without JARVIS dry humor, or without Dummy caring about him in that awkward, clumsy way - and whoever made and programmed this bunny, they managed to make it look angry.
Or maybe it’s just the lack of fur on its face, and the fact that its eyes shift slowly from black to red.
The robot makes a rasping, metallic noise, and then, suddenly and unexpectedly, Tony is doused with a fine spray of...
“JARVIS?” he snaps, suddenly dizzy with want.
“It seems there is a breach in the suit,” JARVIS reports. “As a result of the last battle you were engaged in, sir.”
It explains everything, Tony thinks, and Steve can never know about this, because Steve was right and Tony shouldn’t have gotten so close to the robot, not with a suit that apparently wasn’t really at one hundred percent after the last battle. He should have made sure his suit was really perfect before putting it on, but there hadn’t been time, and the diagnostics program hadn’t indicated any problems...he has to upgrade his diagnostics program, obviously.
Sound and smell, a small part of his brain thinks, are the best ways to influence an Omega-submissive without touching them. Alphas do it all the time, their voices dropping when they’re giving orders, and Tony knows how soothing it can be just to breathe in the smell of an Alpha.
“Tony!” Cap’s voice snaps into his ear, and Tony focuses his attention back on the robot in front of him, and on the gleaming, blank metal of its skull, above a fiery red eye, previously hidden by fur, he sees it.
A tiny little logo.
A logo he knows all too well.
And then, several things happen almost at the same time: Tony is almost run over by some Omegas trying to get to the bunny, an arrow hisses through the air, Tony grabs the Omegas and hauls them back, away from the bunny, their soft and lithe bodies pressed against his bulky chestplate, his back turned to the bunny, and then, the bunny explodes, and the force of the explosion throws everybody a few steps back.
It’s not loud or concussive enough to hurt the Omegas, and they are protected from the shrapnel by Iron Man’s body - there is a good side to them trying to get through him instead of around him, Tony thinks dazedly - but his ears ring and he needs a moment to realize that Cap’s talking, calmly giving orders, that the horrible urge to kneel down and crawl over to where Black Widow is holding back Omegas with sharp commands and occasional touches is easing up a little.
On the other side of the street, far away from the attacking Omegas - none of them dares to get closer, apparently, good for them - Hulk smashes another bunny, together with the car it was perched on.
“Iron Man?” Cap’s voice is getting a worried edge again, and Tony shakes his head inside his helmet to clear his thoughts.
“I’m fine,” he reports. “I know who’s responsible for this mess.” From the edges of his vision, he sees more bunnies explode, and it fills him with relief more than anything else.
They do explode really quickly, a small part of his mind notes. Shoddy work, he thinks, he could’ve done better, not that he ever needed to come up with something as ridiculous and stupid as this...
“I know who built these things.”
The plan is for Tony and Steve to take care of this, by themselves, but the other Avengers aren’t really okay with that.
“I’ve dealt with him before,” Natasha says, a dark glint in her eye as she presses down on an Omega’s shoulder with gentle force, making him kneel in line with the others. Once the bunny-robots were destroyed, they calmed down and became docile enough for her to control, and now, they are waiting for SHIELD Betas and Alphas to take care of them. “I know how to deal with him.”
Clint nods in agreement and brushes his fingers lovingly along the edge of his bow. It’s disturbing and soothing at the same time, and Tony has to swallow against the thick knot in his throat and take a few steps away.
Whatever that bunny sprayed him with, it’s still affecting him. It’s okay as long as he keeps some distance from the Alphas, he’s fine, but as soon as they get close to him, he wants to fold himself down on his knees and beg.
And his suit is still compromised.
“These people,” Thor growls, pointing his hammer at the line of Omegas. “They are not at fault for their behavior. I wish to make the one responsible for it pay. This is not how you properly treat those of a submissive orientation.”
Hulk just grunts and smashes his fist into a small car.
“Anthony. What a pleasure to see you.” Justin Hammer’s nostrils flare, he doesn’t try to shake Tony’s hand. Instead, he reaches out and presses his palm down on the back of his neck, the way he’s always done, in an attempt to get Tony to kneel down for him.
Tony can’t help himself. He twitches and does his best to get away from the sweat-moist-warm touch without pulling attention to it, and without success. He almost wishes for his suit, not just for the added height it offers him, but also for the reinforced joints, but he doesn’t need Iron Man here. He can deal with this by himself.
Steve growls a warning, and Tony uses Hammer’s distraction to squirm out of his grip. He hates it, hates that he’s treated like a pet every time the other man gets close to him, and it wakes the childish urge to poke fun at Hammer just to watch him squirm in him.
It’s retaliation.
Sometimes, he retaliates before Hammer manages to strike first. It’s a survival mechanism.
A survival mechanism he might need here, he quickly realizes. No matter how adorable it is to have his team mates clustered around him now and growling at Hammer, it does nothing for Tony’s reputation as businessman. People like Hammer disregard him just because he is an Omega, and he’s been struggling all his life against the belief that, just because he likes to be on his knees and told what to do occasionally, he also wants to hand over his company to the next Alpha who manages to get his paws all over him.
Besides he refuses to bow to an Alpha like Hammer just on principle.
“Goodness gracious,” Hammer says and turns his attention away from Tony and toward Steve, who is still wearing his Captain America-uniform, the shield on his back and his cowl doing nothing to hide his annoyance.
“Mr. Hammer,” Steve says evenly, “we’re here because we have some questions about one of your...experiments. Sir.”
“Of course, I’d be glad to help,” Hammer assures him and leads them to a conference room with a view over Manhattan that’s almost as good as the one from Tony’s office. “I love to help, after all, Anthony here and I go way back.” He gives Tony a condescending smile that freezes around the edges when Tony steadfastly ignores the designated spot on the floor where Omegas can kneel comfortably and sits down next to Steve, his shoulders squared and his spine stiff.
Steve is their leader, a national icon and treasure, and that’s why he’s the spokesperson for the Avengers. They never talked about it, it goes without saying. Both Natasha and Clint prefer to stay in the shadows, Bruce is not the ideal man to be the spokesperson for anything but anger management classes, Thor is, for all intents and purposes, an alien, a demi-god, and Tony is an Omega, which means people like Hammer don’t take him serious.
But Steve is Captain America. People sit up and listen to him, even if they don’t want to. He made Tony sit up and listen, he made Tony obey his orders from the beginning, even when they didn’t know each other and he definitely didn’t have reason to follow Steve yet.
It’s Steve’s quiet presence in the seat next to him that makes Tony stay quiet and not grab Hammer by the throat, even when his fingers twitch with the urge.
Steve is polite as he outlines the situation they’d found themselves in. He’s quietly commandeering when he asks - asks, not orders - Tony to play the footage of the bunnies, especially the one with the displayed logo. Tony bites the inside of his lip to hide his smile as Hammer fidgets in his seat, eyes flittering to the side and not able to withstand Steve’s piercing glare.
“Do you understand?” Steve asks him, in the kind of voice that goes right to Tony’s core. He once saw Steve use that voice on a kid in the Bronx, compelling him to pick up the wrapping paper of a piece of gum he’d dropped. When Steve uses that voice and it’s directed at him, Tony knows he’s in for a hell of a ride.
Steve usually uses it to make him go to bed or eat something, but sometimes, he uses it in the bedroom too.
Tony bites the inside of his cheek to pull his attention away from the good fantasies and back to the situation at hand.
“I’m sorry,” Hammer says, a fake smile on his face. He leans back in his chair and lifts a hand up to his glasses, adjusting them, before he glances at Tony again. “I’d love to help, but unfortunately, I’m unable to do so at this moment.”
Steve raises both eyebrows. There is a deep line forming on his forehead, Tony knows without looking at his face.
“What is stopping you?” he asks, his voice still so unbelievably polite.
“You brought a fertile Omega here,” Hammer says, accusation thick in his voice. “You brought a fertile Omega here, to my company, to confuse my senses and make me admit to crimes I didn’t commit and that I am not responsible for. You of all people, Captain, should know how dangerous it is to let a fertile Omega leave the house, how much risk these poor creatures are in, unable to control themselves and their urges, when the need hits. You are using Anthony here for your purposes.”
Steve is stunned. Everybody is, their bodies tense around Tony and their breath held. Tony himself is the only one who stays relaxed, too used to this kind of attack.
“Cut it out,” he says easily. “Justin, you’re showing your hand. The only thing you can smell on me are the half-baked pheromones your underdeveloped pet sprayed me with.” He turns toward Steve. “Can you smell me? I mean, I took a shower this morning. I shouldn’t smell.” He makes a show of sniffing the air.
Steve’s shoulders twitch under his uniform. He’s still tense, and he doesn’t know what Tony is aiming for, but he trusts him enough to play along. Tony’s heart clenches and presses itself against the backside of his arc reactor at the sight of Captain America looking at him, tilting his head to the side and saying, “I don’t smell anything...out of the ordinary from you.”
“You shouldn’t,” Tony says and swivels his chair back to grin widely at Hammer. “Fortunately, that thing hit my armor and not me.” Plus, he took enough suppressants to knock out a small elephant, if elephants were submissive, and the outward signs of his heat should all be masked by it.
Plus, he made damn well sure that he is not fertile, because he can’t think of a fate worse than having him as a parent, and he does everything in his power to save any potential child from that. He knows perfectly well that people still expect Omegas to want to be bred, that somewhere in him, there should be the urge to have a pile of little smart Stark-kids, and that he should want to take advantage of having Captain America in his bed every so often. And okay, Tony is fine with taking advantage of the Captain America thing, but he doesn’t want to end up pregnant.
The thought alone makes hives break out across his skin.
“Why don’t you show us what you’ve got, Justin?” Tony’s smile is razor-sharp and dangerous, and he has a split-second where he wishes that the press is here, to record this and put it up on youtube so that Tony can re-watch again and again how the expression on Hammer’s face shifts from the smug faux-concern to...he’s not sure what that is, because for a split second, it looks like pride, and then, Hammer excuses himself for a moment and leaves the room.
“You think he’s running away?” Clint asks darkly. “Can you make it look like he’s running away, so I can shoot him in the back?”
“I think it can be arranged,” Natasha replies, her voice pitched low.
Steve shakes his head. “Nobody is going to shoot anyone,” he says firmly. “Tony?”
“Just wait,” Tony replies. He knows Hammer, has known him for far longer than he cares for. If Hammer has anything to do with this, he’s going to brag. He’s always trying to be better than Tony, and he’s always failed, so far. Tony doesn’t see that pattern change in the near future.
“What if he’s running?” Clint asks after a few more moments of silence.
Tony grins. “We’ll catch him, and we’ll throw him to the wolves,” he says cheerfully.
“Go ahead, pet it.” The little robot on the table has the size of a normal bunny. It fits in Tony’s open palm, or it would fit if he picked it up. It has dark brown fur with white spots, and it looks harmless and cute. It moves almost naturally, Tony notices, but its flanks don’t move. It doesn’t breathe.
Of course. It’s a robot. Robots don’t need to breathe.
“Anthony.” Hammer’s voice is cajoling, and it grates on Tony’s nerves. “Come on. Pet it.”
There is something in his voice that Tony knows should be compelling, but it doesn’t have any effect on him besides making his insides churn with anxiety. He knows he should obey that tone of voice, but he doesn’t want to. He knows that no good will come out of trusting that voice.
Maybe Obie was right, and there is something wrong with him. Maybe Howard fucked up worse than they all suspected, or feared, when he refused to treat his only child like a proper Omega, when he insisted to see him as his legacy, not just a submissive. Tony doesn’t know if that’s it - he barely remembers the time when his father took the time to spend it with him, but it left a deeper impression than they all thought.
“Come on,” Hammer is trying to lure him to touch it, his voice doing that thing where it sounds fake and as if it’s about Tony, when it definitely isn’t. “You know you want to be a good boy, don’t you, Anthony?”
Tony smirks and leans back in his chair. “I don’t think so,” he quips. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to do, or what it does, but I’m pretty sure there’s a huge-ass difference between the two and I don’t want my fingers to get bitten off.”
Hammer stares at him for a long moment before he reaches out and touches the small robot. “See? No harm,” he says. “You’re completely overreacting.”
“How does it work?” Bruce interrupts. He is leaning over the table and staring at the robot, interested in the technology if in nothing else.
“The HammerTech Robunny,” Hammer says and points at the little thing, “the perfect toy for the perfect Omega. They are cute and harmless, and who doesn’t like cute things like these adorable bunnies or well-behaved Omegas?”
“But how does it work?” Bruce asks.
“Did you know that there are studies that petting an animal can lower blood pressure and bring a general sense of peace and well-being?” Hammer puts on his salesman-smile. “These little fellas bring the general sense of well-being to Omegas with the aid of a well-balanced mixture of pheromones and moodstabilizers.”
“You’re drugging your Omega?” Steve asks, a faint hint of alarm in his voice. Tony reaches out under the table and clenches his nails in Steve’s thigh, out of sight of Hammer. He doesn’t know what he wants to achieve with it, but he can’t stop himself from doing it.
“Drugging? No!” Hammer shakes his head firmly, his eyes wide and innocent behind his glasses. Tony knows it’s an act, knows that there isn’t much Hammer wouldn’t do in order to get a step ahead of Tony and his company.
“It’s like this, and I’m sure, sir, that you will find yourself agreeing with me: Omegas want to please. They want to please Alphas, it’s in their genetic make-up, it’s what makes them Omegas, isn’t that right, Tony?”
Tony snorts, but it isn’t as if Justin Hammer is really interested in his opinion. He’s really into his spiel now, and nothing short of an explosion will stop him.
“The HammerTech Robunnies just enforce that natural need to please,” Hammer says. “Maybe you’d like to buy one.” His face brightens. “Or...I have a better idea! Why don’t I give you one, free of charge? You’ll see, your Omega will not be harmed. Omegas love the HammerTech Robunnies!”
“How do you turn them off?” Bruce asks when Steve doesn’t reply. He’s shifting in his seat, but he’s relaxed and there is no trace of the Other Guy, which probably is a good thing, Tony supposes. He doesn’t want Hammer to get smashed by Hulk, and he knows Hammer is an idiot but doesn’t deserve that.
"Turn them off?" Hammer looks confused for a split second. "Why would you want to turn it off?"
"Let's say I want my Omega to make a decision without getting influenced," Clint tosses in from his seat. His fingertips are settled on the fletching of an arrow, stroking gently, and he's keeping his eyes focused on the little robot on the table. Tony is certain that, should the thing move even an inch closer toward him than what Clint considers a safe distance, arrows will fly and the little robot will be stopped, no matter how.
"Omegas don't want to make their own decisions," Hammer points out. "Studies have proven..."
"I think I've heard enough," Steve interrupts. "How do they get turned off?"
Hammer gulps. "They run on batteries," he says and reaches for the bunny. He flips it over, and thumbs a little switch, hidden by silky soft fur.
The bunny beeps briefly, then its eyes close.
"The big ones?" Steve asks.
"Pretty much the same way," Hammer concedes. "I still don't get why you would want to switch it off. Everybody loves a nice and obedient Omega!" The look he gives Tony speaks volumes.
"It doesn't work like that," Tony says quietly. "Trust me on that, Justin." With that, he stands, the other Avengers following him quietly. "Your robunnies are spread throughout the city, messing with Omegas and making them attack Alphas. Is that what you wanted?"
He takes no satisfaction in the way Hammer blanches. He's tired suddenly, tired of how Omegas get treated by Alphas who don't know the first thing about them, and he's tired of acting like he doesn't care about the fact that he, Tony Stark, genius billionaire playboy philantropist, is expected to kneel for every Alpha crossing his path just because he's been born as an Omega.
"I don't know anything about any attacks," Hammer stammers, fingers clenching on the edge of the table. His nails, Tony notices, are well-manicured, a thick ring adorning his pinkie. They look well-groomed, so unlike Tony's with the short nails and the little scars from his workshop. "They're not supposed to do any harm, Tony!"
Tony shakes his head. "Supposed or not, your robunnies caused a riot today, Justin," he points out. "Probably because they pushed Omegas' body chemistry out of whack. And that is illegal influencing of unbound Omegas."
"You do know that Omegas have rights, right?" Clint asks, frowning.
"Of course I know that!" Hammer's voice rises indignantly. "This isn't illegal influencing! They are Omegas!"
"Doesn't make them stupid," Steve replies evenly.
"Is there any way to trace them?" Tony wants to know in the ensuing silence, a hard edge to his voice that he has practiced since the day his father had shipped him off to boarding school, the kind of edge he needs for every single meeting Pepper makes him go to, and Hammer visibly swallows.
Hammer should know better than attempt to treat Tony like an ordinary Omega, he thinks bitterly. Hammer should accept already that Tony is the better engineer, better businessman, and that it doesn't matter if he's an Omega or an Alpha or something completely different.
He's still Tony Stark, still a genius.
He's still better than Justin Hammer, in every regard.
"Come on, guys," he says. "Let's go."
The others silently file out, Steve waiting by the door for him, and Tony smirks his most obnoxious smirk and reaches out to grab the little robot.
The pheromones its bigger cousin sprayed him with also coat this little one's fur, and he can feel it tingle in his fingertips, but he doesn't show how it is affecting him and walks out, shoulders pushed back and chin lifted up, every ounce the successful businessman.
"You should have petted that thing," Clint murmurs when they are back on the street. "We could've have him arrested for tampering with a claimed Omega. Harassment, if it made you kneel down. Maybe even sexual harassment."
Tony snorts. "Yeah, no thanks. It's hard enough to make the board take me serious without everyone knowing about the claimed thing. And without sucking a dick like Justin Hammer."
"I know." Clint shakes his head. "Still, doesn't change the fact that I wanted..." He trails off, but the way he's still fondling his arrow tells Tony all he needs to know.
"We're proud of you, you know that, right?" Steve turns toward him with an earnest expression on his face that makes Tony want to drop to his knees again.
He smirks and hides his feelings behind the sunglasses he slides onto his face before handing the deactivated little robot to Bruce. "Carry that, will you? Touching HammerTech gives me hives."
Bruce smirks, but he takes the robot without complaint.
"Tony..." Steve gives him a look, and it's a clear sign that they know each other for too long, that Tony knows what he wants to say without Steve having to utter a single syllable.
"It doesn't work like that," he points out, his voice pitched low enough not to carry beyond their little circle. "You know it doesn't work like that."
Steve swallows, nods, and just like that, their group breaks up - Bruce heads back to the lab, to figure out if there's a way to trace the robunnies, in case there are even more hopping around New York, Clint and Natasha take a cab back to SHIELD for debriefing, Thor reaches out and squeezes Tony's shoulder before wandering off to god knows where, and then, it's just Steve and him.
Standard post-mission action, actually, unless the Hulk is involved and Tony is needed to calm him down.
"Pizza?" he asks Steve, "or something else? Sushi?"
Steve has still that worried expression on his face, but he nods, agreeing to the pizza, and Tony reaches for his phone, and they walk in silence for a while, until Steve sighs unhappily, his shoulders slumping slightly.
"Whatever it is, you can't let it go, huh?" Tony asks and shakes his head fondly.
"We do tend to subconsciously try to influence Omegas a lot," Steve points out. "It's not even on purpose. It just happens. And it’s just a small step to influencing an Omega consciously."
"Hey." Tony stops and waits until Steve turns to face him. It's not a conversation he wants to have in the middle of the street, or ever, if he's honest, but he knows Steve, can tell how much this bothers him by the downward tilt of his mouth and the slope of his shoulders.
He thinks for a moment, trying to put things into actual words that Steve can understand, that he can grasp and that don't make him brood and treat Tony with kid gloves. It's complicated, and Tony knows he's not good with the whole emotions-thing. Give him a robot anyday, but this? This he doesn't really know how to deal with.
But it's Steve, and for Steve, Tony is willing to make at least a token attempt at making him understand.
"It's not just heat and mindless following of any orders given," he says slowly, his words picking up speed until they almost tumble over each other. "I mean, that's what, one week every few months, and there's really great toys to take care of that, if you're not into getting ordered around or you don't have someone you trust. Omegas have rights, and one of those rights is to pick their own partners, and to pick one of those, you have to want to get down to your knees and want to be good for your Alphas or Betas or Omega-dominants, if there is such a thing. And that's as much free will as the next fully-abled Alpha has. No matter how far the whole obeying thing goes, there’s lines for everyone, lines that no-one can cross without breaking all kinds of laws."
Steve's lips twitch slightly as he tries to make sense of Tony's explanation, and Tony fears he doesn't quite get what he wanted to say. It makes him twitchy - if he could explain how he feels in simple equations, everybody would be way better off.
“So what you’re saying is...” he asks and smiles at Tony, “you’re ours because you want to be ours.”
Tony exhales shakily. “Pretty much.”
The smile widens into a grin. “So if I’d ask you to kneel while we’re getting that pizza, in public, so that everybody could see, you would say...?”
Tony can’t help himself. He answers that grin with one of his own, teeth showing, and bumps his shoulder gently against Steve’s.
“I would say no way in hell.”
"Tony?"
Tony flips his goggles up to his forehead and pats Dummy to make him pull back a little, allowing him to twist around and look toward the door of his lab.
Bruce is leaning against the open door, hands nonchalantly in his pockets and a small smile on his face. He looks like a man who has a secret, or the cat that got the cream, Tony thinks for a split second, and then he realizes that it's a true, rare smile, and he grins back.
"You need me?" he asks, because what reason would Bruce have to come down here, to his private workshop? They have a bigger lab that Tony shares with Bruce, which means that Bruce gets all the space he needs and wants and Tony wanders through occasionally to check if anything Bruce works on can be used for Stark Industries. It's the unspoken agreement the two of them have.
Bruce's grin widens a little bit. "In a way," he replies, "are you done here?"
Tony glances down at his project. It's not done yet, but he is at a point where he can take a break without feeling bad about it, if there is a good reason for him to.
"It's for Pepper," he says before blinking. "Give me ten minutes to finish up, she can wait another day for this."
Bruce nods and crosses his arms over his chest, apparently intent to wait for Tony to do as he said. With anyone else, Tony is sure he would get annoyed, but this is Bruce, and Bruce gets him and the manic determination filling him once inspiration strikes, from his own experience. Tony is sure that Bruce is the last of the Avengers to drag him from his work should he decide that he isn't done after all.
Still, it is unusual, both for Bruce to come down here and for him to wait for Tony like this, and Tony is curious.
He wipes his hands on his pants and takes three steps toward Bruce before he realizes he's still wearing the goggles.
"All yours," he says with a smirk after tossing them to Dummy. "What's up, doc?"
Bruce's mouth twitches. "We have plans," he says, and, "you need a shower. Let's go."
The last is definitely an order, and Tony shrugs and falls in step with Bruce.
"What kind of plans?" he wants to know.
"The kind of plans where, if you can manage to be quiet and a good boy, there will be a reward?" Bruce suggests. He waits until the doors of the elevator close before taking a deep, calming breath and stepping up to Tony, crowding him against the cool wall with a hand curved around the back of his head, holding him in place.
Tony instinctively tilts his head and leans against Bruce's body, his hands going to the other man's hips to keep himself steady. Bruce hums and kisses him, his lips soft and his chin rough with the shadow of stubble.
Tony might be a little taller than Bruce, but there is no doubt that Bruce is controlling the kiss, his tongue brushing teasingly against Tony's bottom lip before slipping into his mouth, to curl against Tony's. Bruce tastes like coffee and spices, and Tony tries to keep his eyes open, to watch Bruce's face for any signs of stress or the Other Guy appearing, but for now, Bruce is firmly in control.
In control of Hulk, and of Tony, too.
Bruce nips teasingly at Tony's lip, and the scrape of his teeth against his skin sends a shiver down Tony's spine. He groans quietly, and Bruce's fingers smooth down his neck and up into his hair again, twisting and tugging but never with more force than what Tony can handle.
"You okay with this?" Bruce murmurs and presses his entire body against Tony's front.
"More than okay," Tony manages to reply. He feels dazed, arousal swamping him and filling every part of him with an expectant tingle.
Bruce nibbles at his lip again, and Tony's knees start to get weak. Before he can sink down, the elevator gives a discreet sound and the doors open, and Bruce pulls back with a reluctant sigh.
Tony blinks, but he doesn't object when Bruce herds him to his room and tells him to strip.
"I like where this is going," he says, a teasing grin on his face, his fingers already busy with his fly.
Bruce smiles again, that little twitch at the corners of his mouth that makes Tony want to sink to his knees and be good, just to keep it there, and he doesn't hesitate to follow when Bruce orders him to go and clean up.
"Be thorough," Bruce calls after him, and Tony shudders visibly. He remembers the guy he met, sneaking instead of strutting, and pride fills him at the thought of how far Bruce has come since then.
He hurries through his shower, brushes his teeth and runs his fingers through his still dripping-wet hair. His dick is half-hard from anticipation alone, and he spends half a minute contemplating if he dares taking care of it, or if he wants to wait in the hope that Bruce's reward will do so.
In the end, he's too curious and impatient to take the time to wrap his fingers around his own flesh, and he groans impatiently and returns to where Bruce is still waiting for him.
He knows immediately that he made the right decision. Bruce is sitting on the edge of Tony's bed, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, and he has a good collection of toys spread out on the mattress next to him.
Tony pads closer on bare feet and hooks his chin over Bruce's shoulder, to take a look himself.
"I didn't know what you like," Bruce says, careful and soft, and tilts his head to the side to press a kiss to the corner of Tony's mouth. "I know what I want to see in you, but this is your chance to veto anything and pick one for me to use on you."
Tony's eyes run across the toys, cataloging and sorting them mentally into piles until he finally shifts and picks one up. "This one."
Bruce grins. "That's the one I would've picked," he admits and takes the toy from Tony's hands. "Put away the rest." He nods toward the box that's half-hidden under the bed, and Tony quickly and with sure hands puts the rest of the collection away.
"I didn't take you for the toy chest type," he admits as he eases the lid of the box down.
"To be quite honest, you're the one who gave me the idea." Bruce reaches out and runs his fingers down Tony's spine in a gentle caress.
"I'm a genius." Tony grins and kneels up. He's still on the floor, and his knees are going to protest in a little while, he can already tell, but it looks like Bruce has a plan and Tony can be a good boy and accommodating if he wants.
Considering the fact that there is a big, green dildo in Bruce's hand right now, one that has the size of an average Alpha-erection, bigger and longer than that of a Beta or Omega, Tony can be very good.
"Yes you are." Bruce brushes the tip of the dildo against Tony's bare shoulder and along his clavicle. "How's the heat?"
Tony shakes his head without hesitation. "Gone, pretty much," he replies. "You have no idea how good it feels, to have that gone."
"You mean, how good it feels to be back in control of your reactions?" Bruce traces the line of Tony's jaw with the toy.
Tony swallows. "Yeah," he admits. "Not that..." The dildo presses against his bottom lip, cutting him off mid-sentence, and Tony takes the wordless hint and opens his mouth.
Of course Bruce knows what it feels like to lose control of himself, of not knowing what he's doing. Tony mentally slaps himself for forgetting that this is Bruce he's talking with, a man who's not only highly intelligent, but also prone to get out of control himself. And while Tony has done some pretty embarrassing things during heat, when he was out of control, he's never tried to take out part of New York and leave ruins and destruction in his wake.
"You're not in control," Bruce tells him firmly and nudges the dildo between Tony's lips. "Not now, not with us. Understood?"
Tony makes an affirmative noise.
"We will take care of your needs," Bruce continues, his voice even and unaffected, calm and collected, and Tony moans softly and settles more firmly on his knees. "You are ours."
Tony leans forward, takes more of the dildo in his mouth, and Bruce lets him, even if it's just for a short moment before he pulls the toy away.
"You're safe with us," he adds, a small, wistful smile on his face. "You understand that?"
"Sure," Tony replies, his eyes on the toy. "Safe and sound."
"Exactly." Bruce leans down and kisses him again, a deep, tongue-tangling kiss that leaves Tony breathless, blood rushing loud in his ears. Arousal thrums through him, leaving him hard and wanting, and Bruce smiles and tangles his hand in Tony's hair again. "Eyes on me," he orders and traces the tip of the dildo against Tony's mouth again. "Show me how good you are with your mouth."
Tony doesn't need to be told twice. He would be embarrassed by the needy sound that escapes when he lunges forward, taking the toy into his mouth and sucking it as if it were a real dick, but Bruce's eyes darken slightly - no hint of green, though, Tony is sure because he keeps his own eyes trained on the Alpha's face - and nothing else matters in that moment.
He loses track of time, his focus narrowed to the expression on Bruce's face and the toy in his mouth, until Bruce pulls it away with a faint groan.
"Get up on the bed," he orders, voice trembling slightly. "Hands and knees."
The toy drags wetly along Tony's spine, teasing against his skin, and he can feel goosebumps break out along his forearms the closer it gets to his ass.
"Perfect," Bruce praises and presses two fingers into him, slow and methodical.
Tony swallows audibly, but he doesn't try to stop Bruce. His body is adjusting easily to the intrusion, already slick and open to the touch, and Tony exhales sharply through his nose and relaxes his muscles. He trusts Bruce not to hurt him, even if this is new, not something Bruce normally does. Under normal circumstances, Bruce gentles him with soft touches until Tony falls asleep, relaxed and drunken on praise and soft-whispered words.
"Not that I'm complaining," he says and arches his spine when Bruce's talented fingers rub around that little, tiny bundle of nerve endings that sends tingles throughout his entire body, "because I'm not, and I most certainly don't want you to come to your senses and stop, but -" Bruce's fingers press firmly against that spot, and Tony promptly forgets what he wanted to say.
"I'm not going to fuck you," Bruce says and runs the toy against Tony's back again. "If that's what you're wondering. It's too dangerous."
"Yeah, I have a theory about that," Tony manages to gasp while a third finger is slipped into him, along the first two, and the stretch is so delicious, sending more sparks through him, that he needs to bite his lip and just breathe for a moment to stop himself from coming.
Nobody has allowed him to come yet, and while that’s usually not something he worries about - he’s Tony Stark, if he wants to come, it needs a damn good Alpha to stop him - he feels that he should hold on this time, follow rules he’s only vaguely aware of most of the time.
"But that doesn't stop me from taking care of you," Bruce grins and pulls his fingers away, leaving Tony with an empty and completely unsatisfied feeling.
He whimpers, fucking whimpers, his knees shifting further apart on the bedspread without his conscious decision, and Bruce touches the toy against his hole and holds it there for a long, breathless moment.
"You want me to take care of you, Tony?" he asks, quiet and in control of the situation, and Tony gasps.
"Do you?"
He tries to get enough air into his lungs to answer, to say the word Bruce so obviously wants to hear, but it's hard, so hard to focus on anything but the slight pressure against his hole where the toy is resting, the tight feeling of his balls, the hardness between his thighs.
"Tony?"
Bruce still sounds unaffected and cool as a cucumber while sweat prickles Tony's skin and burns in his eyes.
"Yes," he manages to gasp out. "Yes, please, Bruce..."
The toy slides into him in one even push, and it punches the air straight out of Tony's lungs. He can't groan, he can't say anything, he can just clench his fingers in the bunched-up fabric underneath them and hold on while he's spread open and filled with that single stroke.
"Aftereffects of heat have not subsided yet," Bruce murmurs, and Tony would laugh about the scientific tone but he can't.
He can't do anything but pant, his muscles fluttering around the toy in him, sweat and pre-come dripping from his body and into the sheets.
"Tony?" Bruce asks. His mouth is close to Tony's ear, close enough to touch, and Tony shivers almost violently, which nudges the dildo even deeper into him.
"You still with me?" Bruce asks and settles his free hand to the small of Tony's back. "Tony?"
"Yeah," he rasps out. He doesn't know how he finds the power to do so, but he does, and Bruce hums and twists the toy in him, sending another wave of arousal cascading through Tony's body.
"Looking good," Bruce murmurs and bends over, to kiss and nibble Tony's shoulder, "so good for me, Tony."
Tony hangs on with his fingernails, pressing back against the toy and enjoying the ride while Bruce slowly fucks him, his thrusts smooth and even and teasing.
"Is that good?" Bruce asks him and slows the thrusts. For a second, Tony wonders if his wrist is getting sore, but then, he blinks sweat out of his eyes and Bruce pushes the toy into him again, the tip pressing firmly against Tony's prostate, and the thought disappears as quickly as it came. "Do you like it like this?" Bruce asks.
Tony is sure that Bruce will stop immediately if he even hints at discomfort, but the truth is, he feels too good to stop. His arousal ratchets up another impossible notch when Bruce's hand moves along the length of a rib and dexterous fingers rub gently across a nipple, and the only complaint he has is that Bruce isn't touching his dick.
But then, he thinks he will come the second someone touches him there, and he feels too good for that. He wants it to last a little bit longer, besides, Bruce has still not given him permission to come.
Maybe he should bring it up, that he's waiting for the order, that he wants Bruce to tell him that he can come, but then, Bruce twists the toy again and all Tony can do is gasp for air.
"That's it," Bruce murmurs, his voice smooth and low, "just like that, let me see you, show me, Tony, let me see..."
And then, he releases his grip on the base of the toy and grabs Tony's hips, holding him still.
It takes Tony a long moment to realize that the game has changed, and another moment to bring himself under enough control to still his hips, lift his head and turn it to look at Bruce quizzically.
Bruce grins.
"I'm not fucking you," he says again, and Tony wants to laugh and ask him what he's been doing for the past who knows how many minutes. "But I want your hands on me, Tony."
Sitting up makes the toy shift in him and sends another spark through his body, but Tony doesn't even really notice, too excited at the prospect of being allowed to do this, make Bruce feel good. His own cock is hard and red, a drop of fluid clinging to the tip, but it's Bruce's that has his attention, outlined against the fabric of Bruce's pants. He wants to bend down and lick and kiss, but Bruce told him how he wanted it, and Tony can follow orders.
"I'm good with my hands," he says and reaches out, fumbling with the zip and button of Bruce’s pants and wrestling them open. Bruce helpfully lifts his hips, and Tony pushes his pants and underwear down his thighs and lets both tangle around his calves.
Tony licks his lips.
"Does that change, proportionally, with you?" he asks. "I mean, out of scientific curiosity. If it does, how do you not rip your pants everytime you hulk out? And have you ever thought about knocking someone out with your...equipment?"
Bruce blushes and firmly grabs Tony by the hair again. "Less talking," he orders. "More touching. And when I say so, you back off immediately, understood?"
Tony can get behind that. He looks up at Bruce through his lashes and licks his own palm, grinning at the blush that still crosses Bruce's face.
The skin of Bruce's dick is hot and flushed almost purple, and Tony can feel the hardness under the silky-soft skin. He runs his thumb across the tip, smearing pre-come, and smoothes his hand down, from the tip to the base, in one slow move.
Bruce groans softly above him. The grip on Tony's hair doesn't ease, but he doesn't want it to. He wants Bruce to hold on to him, to lean on him and trust him to make this good.
"You're gorgeous," he says, just blurting it out, and Bruce chokes back his laughter and bends down to kiss the top of Tony's head, next to where his fingers are still curled in his hair. "Hey, if I go bald, I'm going to blame you."
Bruce shakes his head. "Shut up, Tony," he says, but he sounds fond. "We don't have a lot of time..."
"What are you talking about, of course we do," Tony interrupts him and twists his wrist just so, and another spurt of pre-come slides down Bruce's length. "We can have all night, I don't have anything on my agenda, do I? Should I call Pepper?"
Bruce shakes his head just as the door clicks open behind Tony's back. He tries to twist around, to snap at whoever dares to interrupt them, but Bruce is still holding him tight.
"Everything okay?" It's Steve, a hint of worry in his voice, and Tony's shoulders relax.
So does Bruce's grip on his hair, and Tony takes advantage and bends down to lick across the tip of Bruce's dick, tongue probing at the tiny slit for a taste.
Bruce shouts, his hips pushing up and into the contact, and somewhere behind him, someone is chuckling, but it's not Steve.
"He is a handful," Natasha says, commiserating with Bruce, and jesus, Tony thinks, where did they all come from and what are they doing in his bedroom, this isn't Central Station, and he's a little busy right now and doesn't have time for whatever they want.
He blinks, pinpricks of pain informing him that Bruce grabbed his hair again. "Assemble?" he asks.
His voice sounds fuzzy to his own ears, he thinks, almost as if he's drunk.
"We are assembled," Clint says behind him before whistling. "Nice work, Bruce."
"Thanks." Bruce smoothes his fingers through Tony's hair. "I could use some help, keeping his mouth occupied."
"Hey. I resent that." Tony slides his hand back up and rubs his thumb over the tip of Bruce's dick. "I've been very good for you. To you. Both of those. And you've been doing an exceptional job driving me insane, which is not a complaint..."
"Tony. Stop."
Tony knows Bruce means talking, but he freezes completely, not moving a single muscle while peering up into Bruce's face.
It's still Bruce's face, no hint of the Other Guy, and he grins and slowly tightens his fingers around Bruce again.
"Can you do that while on your back?" Steve asks while stepping closer to the bed, into Tony's field of vision. He's dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt that clings to his chest, and Tony rolls his eyes at the fact that Steve manages to look good even now and slides his hand back to the base of Bruce's dick and then to his balls, cradling them gently and tugging a little.
Bruce grins. "Don't worry, Steve," he says and takes a shaky breath. "He's a genius. He'll figure it out."
“What are you doing?” Tony asks, but he is moving already, sprawling out on his back, the toy sending another pulse of arousal through him.
“And here we thought you actually are a genius,” Clint says fondly and bends down, to press a dry kiss to the corner of Tony’s mouth. “What does it look like?”
“I don’t...” Tony bites his lip as a thought manages to soak through the daze of arousal in his brain. “You guys are not fighting.”
“Yes.” Steve looks down at him with a gentle smile on his face. “We thought we’d help you out with your little problem.” His fingertips brush teasingly against the wet tip of Tony’s dick, and Tony can’t hold back the little twitch of his hips or the gasp that escapes him.
“All of you?” He knows he sounds like an idiot, but then, Alphas are known to fight for the affections of an Omega, especially when heat is involved. Tony might feel better than he did, but there is no doubt that he’s still sending out pheromones and other signals, indicating that he’s fertile and wants to be bred.
That he can be bred.
“All of us.” Steve hesitates. It’s adorable, Tony thinks. “That is, if you don’t have any objections to that.”
He manages a disbelieving snort. “Do I look like I’m complaining?” he asks, and Steve smiles and ducks his head slightly.
“We know this is not exactly normal,” Natasha says and sits down on the edge of the bed, her eyes drawn to the toy between Tony’s cheeks. “But then, what about us is normal?” She grins and reaches out, running her nails against the sensitive inside of his thigh. “What do you say, should I fuck you with Bruce’s dick?”
Nobody can blame Tony for being unable to answer that, for making a punched-out soft whimper of pure want.
It’s Clint’s hands that help Natasha with the harness, and Tony manages to spare a few brain cells to wonder about these two. Short flings between Alphas are not unheard of, and some even manage to stay together for a lifetime, and he’s always had his suspicions about those two, and if he’s honest, the visual of the two of them does nothing to stop the sharp arousal in him.
His grip on Bruce tightens, and he runs his thumb over the the tip absent-mindedly, causing Bruce to inhale deeply, the sound almost inaudible, especially when Clint pushes Tony’s legs apart with rough-gentle fingers and tugs the toy free.
“Wow, Bruce,” he says with a smirk as he hands the toy to Natasha, “that’s impressive. Do you call it Hulk?”
Bruce blushes, a dark, crimson shade that makes the arc reactor ache weirdly in Tony’s chest. He doubles his efforts, speed picking up until Bruce’s eyes fall closed and his head tips back. Tony’s attention is so focused, he almost jumps when fingers tap his hip, and Clint says something about a pillow and lifting his ass.
Natasha's thrusts are slow and languid at first, but Tony knows from experience that it's not going to stay like that. It never does, and the Black Widow chases after her own orgasm as ruthlessly as one expects it from an assassin and spy like her.
Tony doesn't complain. He enjoys it, revels in the force of her thrusts, something which the others usually hesitate about before they give it to him. Her nails dig into his thighs, holding him open, and it gets harder and harder to focus on Bruce's cock in his hand, on the little gasps and grunts he can't hold back and that Tony uses to gauge if he needs to change his technique.
Sweat runs into his eyes, but he doesn't close them, afraid to find out that this is just one of his fantasies, or a heat hallucination, not that he ever had one of those. Maybe it's a symptom of the shot Bruce gave him, hot hallucinations of his team mates all fucking him? He can't tell anymore.
It has to be a hallucination, he thinks when he twists his wrist as much as he can in his current position, and Clint steps up behind Bruce and presses his lips against the straining tendons in his neck, his broad hands coming up to tease Bruce's nipples. Tony knows how good Clint's fingers can feel, their touch gentle and his callouses hard against sensitive skin, but he never thought that Clint would use them on Bruce.
If he's honest, he never thought about Bruce and Clint in that way, considering neither of them gave ever any indication of being this kinky, especially Bruce. Plus, there’s the thing with Clint and Natasha, which is kinky enough on its own.
Speaking of Bruce, Tony focuses his attention on his face just in time to watch him clench his eyes tightly shut, his mouth falling open, head resting against Clint's shoulder while his hips twitch and hot liquid hits Tony's arm.
"Careful," Bruce groans, all but collapsing against the man behind him, and Tony gentles his grip and rubs his fingertips, slick and wet, against Bruce's skin, feeling it twitch underneath his touch, until Bruce stumbles back, away from Tony's grip and all but collapses in the chair in the corner of the room.
"Careful," Bruce repeats. "The Gamma-radiation..."
Tony's brain knows exactly what Bruce is talking about, and Bruce told him a few stories over the past few months, including the one where Bruce explained to him why a papercut is such a bad thing.
"I don't think your sperm is radioactive," he manages to slur out before arching his spine on a particularly enthusiastic thrust from Natasha. "Did you ever test it?"
Bruce doesn't reply, but then, there are hands on Tony, wiping his fingers and his arm with something soft and damp - a towel, he thinks before he realizes that he can look away from Bruce and finds Steve kneeling next to him, cleaning him up with quick and careful touches.
Natasha rolls her hips, pushing the toy deep into him and groaning out what Tony thinks is a curse in Russian, or maybe Latin, he can't tell for sure because arousal threatens to overwhelm him and he can't hold on, can't go on without coming, can't...
"Let go, friend," Thor murmurs into his ear. "Let go."
It's all the permission he needs. His entire body bows off the mattress, he's gasping for air and clenching his fingers in material - Thor's shoulder, skin and hard muscles under his short nails, and a pillow - and Natasha pushes deep, makes a wounded sound Tony's never before heard from her, and almost collapses on top of him.
"Oof," Tony grunts, but he's flying too high to really complain and mean it, plus, Natasha is already shifting to the side. She's light, but still, all those muscles she's hiding under her clothes and skin do have their weight.
"Tony?" Steve asks, amusement glinting in his eyes. "What, you're done already? You getting sleepy?"
"Ha," Tony replies and stretches his arms out to the sides, a wide grin on his face. "Remember who of us is the old man."
"I'll show you old," Steve promises. His hands on Tony's hips are warm and broad, and Tony laughs in delight when he is flipped over and finds himself sprawled on his stomach. He manages to bring his knees under himself and lift his ass, teasing Steve a little, but it's not Steve's hands that pull him down again, it's Clint who's licking a trail up Tony's spine, his tongue hot and agile against Tony's damp skin, bringing a fresh wave of arousal with it.
Another sign that the heat isn't entirely over yet, Tony knows. Under different circumstances, he needs some time after an orgasm like that, but he feels as if he could just go on and on and not tire of the feeling of something nudging at his ass, hands spreading him apart and exposing him, fingers sliding into him, slick and quick, coaxing his arousal into a wildfire burning under his skin.
Clint's mouth tightens against his shoulder blade and he sucks, bringing the blood to the surface of Tony's skin in what is going to be a spectacular bruise, Tony knows, but he doesn't complain. The bruise will be covered by shirts and suit jackets, nobody will know that it's there except the people here in the room with him.
Tony lets his forehead sink back into his pillow, closes his eyes and focuses on the delicious feeling of Clint's fingers on him, Clint's cock pushing into him, the heat of Clint's arm next to him where the archer is balancing himself while giving Tony a brief moment to get his breath back under control.
Clint's like that, Tony knows, he will wait and will torture both of them with it until he can't take it any longer, and only then will he give in to his body's demands, and Tony's, and will give both of them what they want and need. He's stubborn like that, and no matter how much Tony tries to goad him into moving, Clint won't be swayed, instead choosing to display his power in this way.
Tony hides his smirk in his forearm and clenches his muscles, arches his spine, presses himself back against Clint's body as much as he can, and he's a genius and it works, Clint's patience running out much faster than usual, or maybe it has something to do with the fact that the others are watching and he gets off on exhibitionism.
It doesn't take Clint long to have Tony tense and taut like a bowstring, and then, he plays him like an instrument, stroking here, plucking there, kissing one spot and nipping another. There is no way for Tony to stay quiet, no way for him to look at the others and find out what expressions are on their faces. He's too wrapped up in the moment, too caught in Clint's embrace, held securely while Clint takes him apart piece for piece.
Suddenly, there's sharp teeth on the shell of his ear, hot breath, and the order, "Try not to come yet."
"I'm trying," he manages to gasp, his eyes still tightly closed. "Doesn't it look like I'm..." The rest of his sentence gets swallowed by a groan when Clint's cock rubs against his prostate, and Tony bucks, trying to get Clint to repeat that, trying to get him to fuck him harder, faster, better.
Clint groans faintly, a quiet sound that still penetrates Tony's ears like a gunshot, shivers down the length of his spine, and causes his muscles to flutter around Clint. Blood rushes loudly in Tony's ears, his toes curl, and then, Clint stills.
Tony makes a pathetic sound at that, not quite certain if Clint is just teasing him or if he came, but then, a soft kiss is pressed to the nape of his neck, too gentle to be teasing, and Tony sighs and forces himself to relax and take deep breaths.
"Mean," he murmurs, his voice muffled by his pillow. "You're an evil tease, Clint."
"You still love me," Clint murmurs, content and mischievous, and Tony has no reply to that because he actually does.
Huh.
He doesn't really have time to wonder about this, when it happened and how he could allow it to happen - it's not just Clint, after all, he loves all of them, his whole team, and maybe it's a good thing Fury hasn't added anyone else to the Avengers yet, because it is getting crowded in his chest cavity, what with the reactor and all these people taking up space.
"How are you feeling?" Steve asks him. He has that earnest wrinkle on his forehead, the one that tells Tony Steve is a little worried, and he manages a smile and rolls over once Clint lets him.
"I'm feeling great," he says, in case the smile wasn't obvious enough. He never knows with Steve. Once they were in the middle of sex and Steve just stopped because Tony was sobbing, and no amount of persuasion could get him to go back to the fucking because he was convinced he was hurting Tony.
If he's honest with himself, Tony has still not quite forgiven him for that.
"Drink some water," Steve says, holding up a glass, and he even goes so far as to hold it to Tony's lips and tip it carefully, as if Tony is too weak to hold it himself.
Okay, Steve might have a bit of a point with that.
Still, he's a little bit too much of a motherhen for Tony to be comfortable with, and something needs to be done about that.
"I'm fine," he says when the glass is taken away. "Relax, Steve."
Steve forces himself to smile and bends down, his lips brushing briefly against Tony's. "I believe you," he murmurs, too soft to be heard by anyone but Tony, and yeah, his chest feels a little bit like it's getting too tight, too many people crowded in. It's like the living situation in Manhattan, really, too many people in a tiny space, and then Steve came and...planted a flag or something.
Thor chuckles. He's still perched on the edge of the bed, and now, he's reaching out and running his hand through Tony's hair, messing it up, not that Tony cares. Thor tugs at a strand of Steve's hair, too, and Tony has no idea how he does it, but it actually makes Steve relax slightly.
"Be at ease," Thor says. "We do take good care of our own, not just as fellow warriors."
"We do," Clint pipes up. A quick glance over his shoulder tells Tony that Clint is curled up on the floor in the corner, his back against Bruce's leg. He has one leg pulled up and his chin pillowed on it, and one arm is casually slung around Bruce's leg, caressing it gently.
Now that he has the evidence right in front of him, Tony remembers that the Hulk is fond of Hawkeye in a way that is only rivalled by his fondness for Iron Man. He lets Clint climb all over him, and he usually tries to catch him when he jumps off of buildings. Tony smiles - the Avengers do take good care of their own, each and every one of them.
"You're right," Steve says with a small shake of his head. "You're absolutely right. We do."
"Yes. I believe it is my turn to take care of Tony." Thor's hand comes to rest on Tony's thigh, thumb stroking gently, and Tony has no reason to protest.
He lets Thor tug him into his lap, his back to Thor's chest, his legs splayed over Thor's thighs, their fingers tangled together, his own cock hard and bouncing against his stomach, smearing it with clear pre-come. Thor's beard scratches against the slope of his neck, and then, Natasha crawls across the mattress with a predatory expression on her face.
Thor is still holding Tony's hands, and there is no way for him to escape, pressed against Thor's chest as he is, but the look in Natasha's eyes sends shivers down his spine and for a long moment, he's not sure if that's a good thing or not.
"It's the end of the world, isn't it?" he manages to say, his voice strangled and shaky.
Natasha actually rolls her eyes. "Shut up, Tony," she says, but it's with a gentle tone in her voice. Her fingers are quick and efficient, and Tony doesn't quite dare looking down, afraid that he'll break some sort of spell while she smoothes them down his length, along with the latex of a condom.
"Let us take care, svass," Thor murmurs, and Tony knows Thor's talking to him because he's the only one who gets called that, whatever it means.
He squeezes Thor's hands as a sign that he understands, that he's fine with being taken care of by them, but his eyes stay on Natasha who is gloriously naked, whose hands come to rest on Tony's shoulders while she straddles him and sinks down on him.
Oh.
Tony is sure that people have sold their souls for less than the perfect feeling of Natasha's body on them, around them.
He knows he would, in a heart beat, sell his soul and a few other things as well.
Natasha gives him an amused look. One of her hands reaches up, tangling in his hair, and suddenly, he finds himself really close to her chest, and he doesn't need an express order or permission to bend down and press little kisses all over her pale skin. He pulls his hands free from Thor's grip and settles them on Natasha's hips, framing her like a valuable picture.
Thor makes a soft sound underneath the two of them, and then he lifts them, his hands on Tony's hips, his arms bulging as he does, and pulls them back down, pushing deep into Tony and forcing him to pull out of Natasha, and then her hips come down, hard, taking him deep again, and he doesn't know which direction he wants to move in.
Their rhythm is rocky, not smooth at all, but Tony can't stop himself long enough to figure out something that would work better, too caught up in Thor's strong arms and thick cock and Natasha's perfect wet tightness and the shape of her breasts, and this is nirvana.
Nothing could be better than this, he's certain.
He wants it to never end.
He’s only vaguely aware of Natasha coming, her body spasming and tightening around him and dragging him along, Thor not far behind, and he floats on a cloud of peace and happiness and blueprints for a new kind of repulsor while they disentangle their limbs. It’s a good thing Natasha is flexible and Thor is strong, and they touch him with gentle hands made clumsy with exhaustion and arrange his limbs into a comfortable position, leaving him curled on his side, and Tony could drift off to sleep, but something’s nagging at him, and he needs a long moment to realize what it is.
“Steve,” he says, lifting his head. “Steve?”
“I’m here,” and he is, warm and strong and comfortable against Tony’s back, one arm curving under his head like a pillow and the other slung around him, his broad hand covering the arc reactor, fingertips stroking gently along its edges, the scarred skin around it.
Tony shivers and moves his legs just enough for Steve’s dick to slip between. “Like this?” he asks, turning his head to press a kiss to the bend of Steve’s elbow.
“You up for it?” Steve asks, his voice low and gentle and intimate, so close to Tony’s ear, and Tony shivers and pushes back with his entire body, the tip of Steve’s dick hot and silky and now wet from Tony.
“I’m up to it,” he agrees, “come on, Cap. Plant your flag, or whatever witty one-liner will get you to...”
Steve pushes into him, one smooth glide of slick skin on slick skin, but he’s laughing, his body shaking against Tony’s.
“You’re a menace,” he says, and Tony hums and enjoys the feeling of being held close.
“Your menace,” he agrees. “On two days the week, consulting hours from nine to ten.”
“Ours,” Steve says firmly. “Anytime.”
Tony doesn’t realize how much time passes. He’s still floating, Steve still plastered to his back, both of them worn out, and Tony is sure that these sheets are utterly and completely ruined.
He’s very cheerful about the thought.
He’s almost asleep, his brain quiet for once, with Steve’s arm still slung around him, Thor pressed against Steve’s back and Bruce, Clint and Natasha somewhere next to Tony, all of them more or less asleep, when something occurs to him.
“I didn’t take the suppressant today.”
The thought makes his stomach clench, and he swallows dryly. Suddenly, he feels caged, caught by Steve’s arm pinning him down. Omegas are only fertile in heat, and yeah, Bruce said something about residue, but he’s feeling better, so maybe nothing happened, despite the fact that pretty much all of his Alphas had sex with him. Maybe he is safe, but maybe he isn’t, maybe Steve’s super-soldier-serumed semen or Thor’s demi-god sperm managed to trick his body...
“Relax,” Steve murmurs. “It’s okay.” His hand moved away from Tony’s arc reactor, down to his stomach, and he is petting him, soothing circles of his palm against Tony’s bare skin.
“What if...” It’s all he manages to press out, but it’s enough for Steve to know what he’s talking about, what he’s afraid of.
“If you’re pregnant?” he asks. Tony nods, body taut with panicking thoughts of pregnancy, of the fate of Stark Industries, of his place on the team.
“We deal with it,” Steve says. He’s far too calm about the entire situation, Tony thinks grumpily, but before he can open his mouth and point that out, Steve continues, “All of us, Tony. We’re a team, and you are part of our team. We do take care of our own.”
Unspoken are the words, we protect you, we keep you safe, but they are written in Steve’s body language, the way he curls around Tony and presses his lips to the small patch of skin behind his ear, and Tony takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment.
“What if someone asks about the father?” he muses, his body only slowly relaxing.
“You tell them it’s an Avengers-baby,” Clint points out from his spot between Bruce and Natasha. “It’s ours.”
“Yes,” Thor agrees and reaches over Steve, to pet Tony’s hair. “We all shall raise the little one.”
“Could be fun,” Natasha adds.
“Yeah,” Clint says. “You could re-program one of those bunny-things for the kid. To play. With the laser-eyes, in case someone wants to grab it.”
“Or,” Bruce murmurs, “you go down to the clinic tomorrow and get the morning-after pill before your ten-o’clock meeting Pepper was harassing you about.” He yawns. “Your decision, if you absolutely don’t want a kid and want to make sure.”
Tony doesn’t reply. He needs to think about it, but, one thing he realizes as Steve’s grip on him tightens, Thor’s fingers fall slack in his hair, Natasha kicks him in the shin, Clint snuffles in his sleep and Bruce sighs almost inaudibly, no matter what he decides, it will be okay.
His team will be there for him.
His Alphas.
And they will protect him and make sure he’s okay and keep harm away from him to the best of their abilities.
And with that in mind, Tony realizes that it wouldn’t be so horrible, having a kid with them.
Because they are Avengers.
And they take care of their own.
~end.