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Waking up after being the Hulk is always disorienting. Bruce isn't surprised by the way his vision swims as he blinks slowly into consciousness. But when the world continues to slip, slide, and double by the time he feels more present, he can admit to a shudder of panic.
"Hey, hey, Big Guy, don't move. Stay down," Tony says, coming around the corner of the desk where either some henchman had been camping out in a nest of blankets between shifts, or someone from the team's made him a makeshift bed.
"Wass wron?" Bruce tries to ask, and then immediately feels his heart rate spike in alarm at the way his words slur. His limbs are unnaturally heavy as he attempts with greater determination to sit up.
"I said, stay down," Tony says, crouching over him and gently but firmly pushing him till he's back to lying prostrate in the bed of blankets. "You got hit with some form of tranquilizer."
"Bu’ m' skinzz…too thk," Bruce points out.
"Yeah, your skin's too thick for standard delivery methods. Which is probably why the fucker was aiming for your eyes. That, or he got an assist from the Devil himself to get that lucky," Tony mutters, his brow furrowed in worry.
"S'okay," Bruce pours out between numbed lips. "Nuffin c’n take me d' wn." He tries to pat Tony's hand, which is still pressed over the center of his chest, fingers flexing anxiously over the spot where Bruce's heart beat is strongest.
"This did," Tony grinds out between clenched teeth. "Whatever that fucker hit you with, it wasn't just some standard tranq." Eyes narrowing, his hand starts to roam, dragging over his skin and periodically applying pressure.
Bruce tries to squirm away to no avail as chilly hands touch and prod, before one finally settles against his forehead.
"Do you feel feverish?" he asks, visibly worried.
"M' not sure. No mo'an usual?"
The comm in Tony's ear suddenly pipes in Steve's voice, exacerbating Tony's apparent frustration. "How's Dr. Banner doing? Is he going to be able to - "
"Is patience not one of your virtues, Spangles? I'm still working on making an assessment. stay off the comms unless you have something to contribute."
"Can you at least tell me whether it's safe to move this machine or if we'll have to arrange for on-site - "
"No, because I'm not a nuclear physicist. We already had this conversation. Do you need me to write a note on your arm Memento-style, or can you retain it this time?" he asks, tone edging towards caustic as he pulls the right gauntlet off the Iron Man suit standing sentry over them.
Without waiting for a reply, Tony manually switches the comms channel to the one Jarvis listens on, effectively making Jarvis the middle man if Cap calls again.
"Cap needs me?" Bruce asks, trying to sit up once more.
"Does everyone have memory problems today? Lie back and relax, while I take your temperature," he says, pinning Bruce easily with one hand while he raises the gauntlet, palm out.
The edge of the repulsor glows blue as Tony asks, "What are we looking at, Jarvis? Can you detect whether we're within a standard deviation of normal for Post-Hulk temperature readings?"
"Negative, sir. The infrared scanners have been damaged. A contactless reading is not possible at this time."
"What're y’doin'?" Brue asks, struggling to keep his eyes open as the gauntlet touches down on his forehead, beneath his armpit, against his lower back, then along his inner thigh a hair's breadth from Bruce's scrap-covered dick, all while Tony's frustration continues to mount as Jarvis announces each time, "Environmental interference too high. Reading inconclusive."
"Suggest a means to eliminate environmental interference," Tony hisses out on the latest failed reading, looking very much like he wants to throw something.
"Hey," Bruce tries to clasp the man's shoulder, but has to give up when his fingers start to shake half-way to their destination. "I'm fine! 'm always fine."
But Tony shakes his head, unappeased.
"Surrounding the digital sensors with the organic matter to be tested will yield the highest probability of success," Jarvis offers. The mechanical voice filtered through Tony's earpiece comes out with a halting cadence, as if the AI already knows its suggestion will be poorly received.
Tony proves the Al right by swearing, colorfully.
"Wass wrong?" Bruce asks, still not really tracking, but concerned by the pained way Tony's expression reconfigures.
"Can I take your temperature?"
"Um... Li’l’late t 'ask. Don' cha think? Y’took it alr 'dy loads o' timesss."
"Unsuccessfully,” Tony reminds him, the hand he's still using to keep Bruce pinned flexing in a momentary squeeze. "Cap wants you to assess the machine we found in the main room, and normally I'd let you make the decision yourself on whether you're up for it. But, right now, you're kind of compromised. Question is, can you walk it off, or are you at an Alice-in-Blunderland level of compromised. I need more data and, according to Jarvis, we've only got the more invasive options left."
"Invas’ve?" Bruce repeats, feeling his eyes widen.
Tony seems to cringe a bit, but his gaze remains steadfast, nailing Bruce with an intensely determined look of concern. “As your power of attorney, if I can't get a reading off you, I'm cutting this mission short. Yes, you're the expert, but SHIELD's got some smart cookies they can deploy from their flying easy bake oven. It doesn't always have to be us. And given that you feel like you just came out of an easy bake oven, I'm inclined to skip the temperature check and just say it was concerning.”
“Wha- no! Pow’r ‘f att’rney is for incap…incap-sition...Oh, y’know whadeyemeen,” Bruce huffs in frustration. “Jus' take the reading!"
Thankfully, Tony doesn't argue. Switching the comm back to the team channel, he tasks Barton with bringing in a first aid kit. Steve tries to use the window to get a status report, but Tony ignores him.
Barton comes in at a clip, eagle-eyes scanning, making assessments that he’ll surely report to Steve, but Tony quickly shoos him out.
Bruce watches him put on the gauntlet and disinfect its three center digits with the non-alcoholic solution stocked in the med kit without really understanding why he's doing it. But once he's done, Tony leans forward, hovering over Bruce. The low-grade mechanical heat emanating from the armored glove so close to his neck has Bruce instinctively edging away, an animal terror rising up in his throat.
"Whoa! Hey! You're safe. Shhh, you're safe." Tony immediately pulls his armored hand away, while the other one buries itself in Bruce's hair, petting his mess of curls with slow, steady strokes.
Embarrassingly, it takes a solid minute for Bruce to calm down. Worse yet, he catches himself straining towards Tony's hand, unconsciously seeking comfort.
Although Tony indulges him without commentary, his mind seems made up. "Yeah, no, whatever your temperature, you're obviously not firing on all cylinders."
"No, wait. There was…risk of radiation leak," Bruce protests, carefully working to enunciate each syllable without slurring. "This is...import’nt."
"Are you sure you know what you're agreeing to? I need all three sensors covered. If you won't let me take the reading orally, you've only got one other cavity for me to try."
"I don't have cavit-" Bruce starts out, licking across his teeth to check, before he realizes what Tony's pointed look means, "Oh. You mean..."
Lifting his armored hand, Tony sticks out the three large metal fingers, showing off the sensor arrays arranged in long strips along the undersides. "All three of these need to be covered at the same time. To get them to fit, I'll need to prep you here , right now, in the field, with whatever lubricant comes standard in our first aid kit. You're barely talking sense and every minute we waste you might be getting worse. Is this really worth it?"
It's a serious question. Tony respects him enough to let him make up his own mind, though Bruce knows it's only to a point. If he were absolutely sure - or even justifiably suspicious - that Bruce was in danger, there wouldn't be any sitting around and debating.
Grateful for being given the final say, Bruce, on his part, also doesn't answer out-of-pocket. The machine they found needs some careful study and a determination needs to be made on whether it can be safely relocated to a SHIELD lab. Handling the machine without proper protection comes with risk of radiation poisoning and there’s no telling what traps and failsafes have been put in place to punish tampering attempts. Both his expertise and imperviousness to harm make him the ideal candidate for the initial assessment. And, for fuck's sake, he’s already here .
If he leaves now, not only will he feel guilty, but he'll also have to answer to the rest of the team.
To Coulson and Fury.
To SHIELD.
And no one, besides Tony, will understand why he couldn't have stuck it out and done the dangerous, highly-specialized thing that no one can do as safely as he can.
"Maybe we could try orally again?" Bruce says, with some amount of confidence. His lips feel less numb, words coming out with less concentrated effort.
But as soon as he feels that unnatural heat warming the skin near his face and neck, a low rumble fills his throat, like the churning of gravel, and that's objectively worse than his previous reaction. "No oral," Bruce nixes immediately, breathing deep in a struggle to maintain control.
However, that only leaves the 'nuclear option'.
Schooling his expression, Bruce studies the fingers of the gauntlet, carefully considering their shape. Fuck, but they’re thick and probably longer than they look. Each finger is a marvel of engineering and a testament to Tony’s technical prowess, with multiple hidden functions and features that deploy in only-Tony-knows-what-fashion. Handling them as someone who has no idea how to use the suit is probably dangerous.
Still, given his invulnerability, Bruce feels obligated to suggest, "Maybe I could take the reading myself?"
"Sit up for me,” Tony says, lips pressed together in a skeptical frown.
His muscles strain, lungs heaving as he struggles to sit up like a normal person, but his core strength fails on him and he ends up having to roll sideways, pushing slowly with both hands to get to a seated position.
After silently watching him struggle, Tony pushes his shoulder without much force and then has to scramble to catch him before Bruce's head can hit the concrete floor. Unsurprisingly, his answer is, "Not a fucking chance. I'm doing it, or we're leaving. Or, I suppose, if you'd rather someone else on the team - ”
"No," Bruce cuts in, a different kind of panic quaking through him at the suggestion. As much as he appreciates the other Avengers, there’s no one else he’d willingly be in this position with. “I... I'm fine with you doing it. I mean, only if you're fine with - ”
Waving away his concern, Tony says, “Why would I mind? I get to finger my hot, vaguely-troubled genius of a best friend in the middle of a mission with the team hanging around just a few rooms over.”
Knowing Tony’s watching for it, Bruce barely manages to suppress the full-body wince at the summation. The man regularly uses crudeness to test people and though Bruce isn’t sure what he's testing for this time, he knows he needs to pass if he wants Tony’s cooperation.
“Sounds right up my alley,” Tony continues, when he doesn’t get a reaction. “But if you're sure you want me to do this, you're going to have to ask. I need to know that you're fully aware of what you're asking for."
"Um…okay. Will you please take my temperature?"
With a snort, Tony shakes his head. "Not what I meant. I need you to describe what you want me to do in as much painful detail as you can manage. And if you can't stomach that, then you sure as hell won't have the stomach to deal with the aftermath of it actually happening. I'm not losing my lab partner and tower roomie for the sake of something this stupid. SHIELD can deal with this situation. There's no need to go for the last resort when there's so many other resorts yet to be tried."
Easy for Tony to say. There’s no question what benefit Iron Man brings to the team. He has enough social capital, political capital, and just plain capital to make demands and set boundaries.
Bruce's usefulness, however, is severely limited. His greener half is a boon about as often as he's a liability; and generally, Bruce feels responsible for the Hulk’s mistakes, but takes no comfort in his triumphs. If Bruce flakes in this rare moment where he, as himself, is the perfect fit for the problem at hand, how will the team ever trust him again? How can he ever say unironically 'you can count on me' if he fails here and now for such a stupid reason?
So, he swallows his pride, hides his embarrassment behind the sincere need to fulfill his function on the team, and asks, "Please Tony, could you help me stretch my anal cavity wide enough to fit the sensors?"
Apparently, that's not blunt enough. "Help you how?" Tony prompts. "Lay it out for me. What will I need to do to help you?"
“You're going to have to put your fingers inside of me," Bruce says, managing an equable, clinical tone.
"Inside where," Tony prompts again. It's not a question and his tone is quick, aggressive, and barbed. It's another test that Bruce fails to guess the point of.
"I need you to put your fingers in my rectum?" he tries.
"You need me to finger your hole?" Tony asks. A pointed correction.
Bruce isn’t sure why the simplified, and frankly less specific, language makes the request sound so lewd, but immediately his face is on fire, burning up with a bright red blush.
And fuck, but Tony's still staring at him in expectation.
Because he wants him to repeat it.
And then it hits him. The point Tony’s making…
With the veneer of clinical detachment stripped away, that raw, unadorned phrasing and the mortification that follows… It's as close as he can simulate what going through the actual experience will be like without actually doing anything. Tony's more experienced at dealing with people, so Bruce is left wondering whether the man's able to predict that there won't be a way for the act itself to be clinical.
Does he know how much Bruce admires him?
How much he appreciates him for his acceptance? Of him and his poor self-esteem? Of Hulk and his destructive response to fear?
Are those elements Tony's aware of and has already factored into the equation?
But there doesn't seem to be another way. Unwilling (or perhaps even unable) to display the requisite vulnerability such an act would require to anyone else, Tony's his only option.
Still, he tries to force his muscles to move, testing his body for strength and responsiveness, just in case he might still avoid making the blunt request and take the reading himself.
But no dice.
His muscles and tendons fail to perform and Bruce can only hope that so will the rest of him in the face of what he hopes to be a perfunctory stretching. He doesn't need the added humiliation of a cock-stand.
"Please Tony, could you finger my hole?" Bruce asks, careful not to cringe at the words as they take shape in his mouth. For all that he's asking a rather big favor, he regrets saying please. Mostly because it only makes his request sound more pornographic, like a line out of an x-rated BDSM film.
With an amused snort, Tony shakes his head. "How can I refuse such a polite request?" Already, any professional detachment that could be injected into the situation is lost when Tony lets his unarmored hand trace the strip of skin above Bruce's shredded shorts, thumb rubbing a careful coin into the divot at his hip. "Can I take off your pants?" he asks, his earlier brusque tone giving way to something softer.
"Y-yeah, ‘f course."
Careful fingers tug the material down and off, leaving Bruce naked, in the hollowed out room of the ancient compound he'd smashed his way into. “I need you to spread your knees for me. Wide as you can manage,” Tony says, like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Then squeezing lube onto his fingers, he warns, "I'm going to tell you what I'm planning to do before I do it. If at any point you want me to stop, or need me to slow down, just say the word. Otherwise, I'm largely going to assume you're okay to keep going. Does that work for you?"
"Sounds like biz’nss as usual," Bruce jokes, before nodding. "Works f’r me."
"In that case, I'm going to massage your hole, slowly working a finger in."
Just the words, said in Tony's voice, directed at him are sort of an undoing. An electric charge climbs down his spine, starting with the prickle of heat suffusing his cheeks. The first touch, bold and unhesitant, spreads skin-warmed lube over his hole in a rhythmic undulation.
Although Tony had used the word massage, admittedly Bruce hadn't been expecting one. There is nothing perfunctory about the way he approaches the task at hand. By the time he's dipping the first knuckle of his pointer finger in, Bruce is far from unaffected, holding in panting breaths and trying desperately to smooth them out.
"Are you trying to suffocate? Breathe normally," Tony scolds, sharp eyes making a quick study of Bruce's micro expressions. "Don't hold back,” he warns, punctuating with a gentle flick against Bruce's rim. "This situation is fraught with enough risk without me having to worry I'm reading you wrong. The more obvious you can make your feelings, the better."
"I don't want to be obvious," Bruce mutters, very aware of the spread of heat across his face in what must be a deep blush.
"And I don't want to hurt you. Tell me, when was the last time you took anything inside you? Come on, baby, how much work am I gonna have to do to get you ready for these sensors?"
"B-baby?" Bruce chokes out, shocked redder. Who in their right mind would ever think to call the Hulk (or his frumpy alter ego) by that pet name?
"You don't like it?" Tony asks, but in this area on the spectrum of life, he's as much a genius as he is at engineering. He must read something in Bruce's expression, because his eyes light up with understanding. "Or, you don't think it fits? Let me guess. When you hear 'baby', it evokes thoughts of statuesque bikini models, or perky fitness instructors or, at the very least, people who society at large would describe as pretty, diminutive, sweet... Bet you've got no idea how sweet you are, baby."
"W-what are y' doin', Tony?" Bruce asks, holding back a whimper as Tony finally sinks that first finger all the way into him, slowly screwing the lubed length in.
"I'm still waiting on an answer," Tony says, pouring more lube over his hand and working it into him. "You're vice-tight. Not that I mind if this takes a while, but the risk of someone coming to check on us increases the longer we're at this."
Releasing a peeved mutter of curses, Bruce finally gives in and answers, “Y’d have to ch’k my med’cal record. Las’ prosta’ ex’m.”
“Prostate exam?” Tony repeats, sounding even more apprehensive than before they’d started. Whether he does it on purpose or by pure coincidence, his finger dips far enough and at an angle where he happens to land a long searing rub along the length of Bruce’s prostate.
Choking down a whimper, Bruce squirms restlessly in place as Tony absentmindedly kneads that spot with perfect precision, even as he’s apparently preoccupied with working through the possible implications of Bruce’s answer.
“Have you ever done anything anal that wasn’t medically recommended?” Tony asks, his brow furrowing with worry.
“Doesn’ matt’r,” Bruce grinds out, hands carefully twitching down towards his rapidly-filling dick, wondering if there’s any way he can casually hide his arousal.
“It matters to me,” Tony says, hotly. “If I’d known you were a virgin, I wouldn’t have put this option on the table.”
“Are you kiddin’? ‘M not a fucking virg’n, Tony. Not some innoc’nt y’re corruptin’.”
“But you are, though,” Tony insists, mental agitation apparently on a separate track from the manual task he’s performing. Despite his seeming displeasure at ‘taking Bruce’s virginity’ - whatever the hell he thinks that means, given Bruce’s definitely real, not hallucinated, prior sexual encounters - his hands seem to move automatically. The gauntleted-left squeezes more lube onto Tony’s bare right hand, and slowly another finger starts to press against Bruce’s rim. “If the most you’ve ever had inside you is a doctor’s digit for a quick exam, then what experience do you even have ?!”
Tony’s distress is absurd. So, he’s never done anal. Bruce isn’t sure why that’s so shocking.
Often the outcast, even before the Hulk, Bruce hadn’t dated much. And he rarely got to the stage of sleeping with someone before the dating stopped. Betty had been his only real relationship and, as far as he knows, they’d enjoyed each other well enough. Maybe his lack of experience resulted in more vanilla encounters, but he never heard any complaints. More relevantly, for most of his life, he’d ignored his attraction to men, along with anything that could’ve earned him the scorn of his peers had it come to light.
So, he hasn't experimented with anal.
But he doesn’t understand why Tony should care about that in the here and now.
“Why d’s it matt’r?” he asks, when the furrow between Tony’s brows fails to disappear, even as he’s got both his pointer and middle fingers scissoring inside of Bruce in a horrifyingly tantalizing way. Giving up on subtlety, Bruce’s lethargic hands jump up to cover his dick as he swallows down a too-telling moan. Fuck, but Tony’s too damn good with his fingers.
“It matters because, if you’ve never done this before, this is going to be a lasting memory. Instead of this being a less-than-ideal-but-otherwise-run-of-the-mill fingering, it's going to be formative. Even more so if you’ve never had a man touch you in a sexual way.”
“But this isn’ suppos’t’be sexu’l,” Bruce points out, stubbornly.
“There’s no way for this not to be sexual. That was my whole point!” Tony growls, nostrils flaring as a temperamental tremor works through him. “You know I like you. That I think you’re brilliant and brave, thoughtful and sweet as a fucking puppy, and hot as hell. I’ve spent months flirting with you, trying my damndest not to be overbearing. I mean, should I have been more explicit? The sensors on my gauntlet are wider than four average-sized fingers. I’m practically going to have to fist you to get you loose enough for them to go in without hurting you. And if I have to work you open till you’re practically gaping , then I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure it’s as painless as possible. Which means stimulating the release of copious amounts of oxytocin, endorphins, and dopamine, and you can bet I’ll be pushing for that orgasmic rush of seratonin to round out the experience. With all that in mind, it’s not too late to stop.” And with that reminder, Tony’s fingers still inside him as he waits for a sign to either keep going or pull out.
“We’ve alre’dy gott’n this far,” Bruce says, frustration putting a whine in his voice that he deeply resents. Two fingers in, he can’t believe they’re still debating, when time is not on their side. Steve’s patience, and SHIELD’s, can’t be counted on. And there’s no way he wants to be discovered naked with his engorged dick out, speared on Tony’s fingers, by anyone. It’s bad enough that Jarvis must be fully aware of everything that’s happening. Fuck, for all he knows, the Iron Man suit might be passively recording this and passing it along to the Tower’s servers - his embarrassment immortalized in high definition.
“We’re not even half-way,” Tony says. “And we haven’t gotten to the hard part. If you want to keep going, just know that this right now is me having sex with you.”
“C-casual sex?” Bruce asks, because if Tony’s serious, then it’s low-key horrifying how absentmindedly he’s agreed to something so potentially ruinous. Tony’s such an important part of his life, that a one-off dirty backroom dalliance isn’t something he’s sure he can stand to carry memories of. The last thing he needs is sense memory adding fuel to the inescapable jealousy he feels at the thought of Tony with other people.
Oddly enough, Tony says, “If you need this to be casual, I’ll go along for now. But fair warning, I’m going to push for something more serious as soon as seems appropriate.”
“’m not a casu’l pers’n,” Bruce admits.
“Good,” Tony says simply, leaning over to press a surprisingly chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Then, if you’re sure, ask me to keep going.”
Through the haze of whatever tranquilizer his body's busy processing, Bruce registers that he's impressed. The manipulation is rather blunt but effective. For the second time, Bruce finds himself asking Tony for something he never thought he would. And he's pretty sure that the manipulation will work on his subconscious mind, creating a greater feeling of culpability for this situation than what he'd naturally feel. But Bruce doesn't mind taking the blame for this scenario. If Tony needs the added protection of having Bruce actively request continuation, he'll happily provide it.
In fact, he goes one step further, offering Tony the reassurance he hasn't pressed for. Wording the request in a way that will bolster Tony's confidence, Bruce says with due seriousness, "Fuck me with y'r fing’rs, Tony."
Breathing a bit smoother, looking a little less worried, Tony cracks a smile. But he's still Tony Stark and maybe Bruce should have remembered that, in offering an inch, he'd inevitably lose a mile. "Just one more thing," Tony says in a tone that has Bruce tensing, consequently clamping tight around the two fingers still stuffed inside him. "Since we both agree that what we're doing here is sex, I'm going to need you to drop your arms."
Gritting his teeth, Bruce points out, "I feel plen’y expos'd right now, Tone."
"I get that. I do. But, like I said, this experience is going to be formative by virtue of being unique and riddled with first times. There's enough that I don't like about this scenario. Let's not add you hiding from me to it, yeah?"
It's really not a request. Tony doesn't 'go along to get along'. His brilliance and vast resources have paved his way into the Avenger's Initiative, but his status as a consultant speaks for itself. The man only participates when he wants to. And somehow, Bruce has ended up in the same camp because, in the eyes of SHIELD, they're considered a package deal. Even if a mission doesn't need the Hulk, Bruce ends up playing field medic, or eye-in-the-sky, or resident on-site tech support whenever Tony accepts a call. Who knows how or with what data, but it seems like SHIELD has figured out three key things.
1) Bruce has a hard time saying no to Tony.
2) Tony doesn't play well with others, but he's better behaved when Bruce (or the Hulk) is around.
3) If Tony's conditions aren't met, nine times out of ten, SHIELD loses out on the participation of both Iron Man and the Hulk. Occasionally, they can wheedle and guilt Bruce onto a plane for a support role, but Code Greens become too risky to call - a lesson they'd learned the hard way when the Hulk had turned recalcitrant and exponentially more destructive at the discovery that 'Metal Man' had stayed home.
So, in the end, even though Bruce does have hard lines and his own opinions, he's had to learn the art of capitulation.
And Tony hasn't.
Thus, inevitably, Tony calls the shots. Steve may be the leader, but his team shrinks and loses some major advantages if he pushes too hard in a direction Tony disagrees with.
And here again, Tony's calling the shots and Bruce is forced to eat his embarrassment and capitulate. Steam practically rising from his flushed cheeks, Bruce forces his arms to drop even as he wonders how much longer before Steve shows up to check on them.
The fucker just makes it that much worse when he presses another delicate kiss to Bruce's temple this time and whispers, "Good boy."
There's no controlling the way his stomach drops in the agonized overwhelm of free fall. It's such a stupid phrase and Bruce has no idea how Tony's managing to wield it so effectively. But he doesn't have long to think about it before there's more lube being dripped straight into him through the gap Tony's spread fingers create.
He works the slick substance into him with an exactness that makes it clear he's actively deciding when, and with what pressure, and for how long to touch Bruce's prostate. As he feeds a third finger and more lube into Bruce, those dark eyes skim over him with what almost feels like the weight of actual touch. Bruce feels flayed open beneath the cataloging gaze that seems to collect, analyze, interpret and predict his responses to stimuli with such effectiveness that there isn't any pain or discomfort as Tony smooths a squelching amount of lube into him and starts to less-methodically fuck his hole with his fingers.
"You're taking me so well," Tony says, his tone oddly complimentary given how little control Bruce has over his own responses. "You're beautiful like this,” he continues, "flushed pink, with your hair all wild and fluffy. I hate that we're doing this here. I hate the rush, the risk of discovery, the way all of this is out of order. But at the same time, I'm grateful for the catalyst. How are you doing? How does this feel?"
"I-I'm -" Bruce can't get a coherent response out, and the way Tony's suddenly targeting his prostate, squeezing the nub between the lengths of two fingers, before then crooking over it and applying a constant oscillating pressure, with his mouth already open, primed to speak, Bruce fails to hold back a needy whine.
With a self-satisfied hum, Tony says, "That's what I like to hear."
"Y-you d-dick," Bruce huffs before Tony redoubles his efforts, pulling the same trick again to prise a series of moans out of him.
"Good, just like that, sweetheart. Don't worry about being overheard. The audio sensors are online and Jarvis will warn us if anyone gets as close as the end of the hallway outside."
"Y-you s-s-sure?" Bruce asks, panting as Tony keeps thrusting his fingers into him.
"You ready for another?"
"M-more? Ngh…ca-can't."
"Sure, you can," Tony says, spreading his fingers wide. "I'm actually kind of shocked at how easy you are to stretch. Any chance it has something to do with your altered physiology?"
"N-no, don' sto-stop," Bruce whimpers, feeling unhinged as Tony's fingers grind to a halt.
"Need to stretch you wider, baby. Keep your knees spread, far as you can. I'm going to have to work this one in slower and I want you feeling good while I do it. But that comes with some caveats, so I need to know you're listening."
"I'm listenin'," Bruce says as equably as he can manage when he feels electrified from the inside and there are goosebumps raised along his arms and legs.
"You're good at this, by the way," Tony says suddenly, looking down at where his fingers are buried inside Bruce. "If I had my cook in you, you'd be milking it. I can feel your muscles contracting around me."
Suffering a frazzled confusion, Bruce just stares at him in disbelief. The filth coming out of his mouth…And he's talking about Bruce. Non-ironically.
If anyone overheard this, they'd think Tony had found some nubile porn star in the rubble. Not his scruffy lab partner.
"What caveats?" Bruce asks, hoping if he ignores Tony's odd, erotic compliments, he'll forget to issue them.
"I don't want you to come until after I get the reading. It's the part that's going to hurt the most. I'll try to get you wide enough but the gauntlet isn't going to have any give. I want your body producing feel-good hormones the whole time, so we need to save the orgasm for after. Can I trust you to follow directions?" "
W-what kind o' directions?" Bruce asks, shifting thoughtlessly only to squirm at the way Tony's fingers move inside him.
"Touch your dick for me, palming the head and applying light pressure against your slit."
"S-slit? Y' mean the urethr'l openin'?"
"Yeah, the tiny hole that I'm going to fuck a modified silicone dipstick into someday, or is that not something you're into?” Tony asks, leering, eyes lit up with amusement as he watches Bruce color beneath a guilty blush.
"I needed that f'r a legit’mate purp’se," Bruce says, but even to his own ears he sounds unconvincing, even though it's the truth. Sure, the thought had occurred to him that it could be used for...nefarious purposes, but he'd had an actual need for the tool.
"Oh, trust me, I'm fully aware of the way you've been depriving yourself. Jarvis is in charge of restocking the rooms and his data shows the lube on your floor is still unopened. It's a travesty that I mean to set right in the very near future."
The promise, said in that silky, wanton voice, has Bruce's skin burning again. To distract himself, he follows Tony's instructions to the letter.
A devastating 'Good boy' has him unintentionally fucking himself on Tony's unmoving fingers.
"Ok, let's get you ready,” Tony murmurs, spreading the three digits he has in him, pouring more lube in, and slowly edging his pinky into the space.
The stretch is startling, though not painful. Bruce feels utterly stuffed full.
"Does it hurt?" Tony asks, smoothing a thumb over his straining rim. "Deep breaths, baby. I need you to relax. Work the head of your cook with your fingers. Not too much pressure…That's right, just like that."
As Tony spreads his fingers wider, the feeling of fullness begins to feel overwhelming.
Worse yet, Tony warns, “I'm going to need to work my knuckles in, but we're almost throu - "
The Iron Man suit abruptly marches out of the room at a fast clip. "Halt. Your presence is not authorized. Return to the perimeter or prepare to be removed."
"It's just me," they hear Clint's whine coming from out in the hallway.
"For fuck's sake,” Tony mutters, before shouting, "You'll have your answer in ten minutes, Barton. Go on, git!" All the while, his fingers are corkscrewing in Bruce's asshole, pulling together and back apart as he works on widening him enough to take his knuckles.
Clint must give up, because the Iron Man suit returns, taking up a strategic position near the entrance although Bruce doesn't fail to notice that its front is turned towards them, the helmet and its array of cameras pointed in their direction. He's about to ask Tony if it's recording them when his prostate starts getting pounded, a thrusting pressure turning his muscles to jelly.
"Squeeze the base of your dick tight. Remember, don't cum," Tony orders, as he pours more lube from the rapidly emptying packet. With the overwhelming pleasure of having his prostate finger-banged into oblivion while he's holding onto the edge by the skin of his teeth, only his own grip on his dick keeping him from going over, Bruce feels Tony working the four knuckles at the top of his hand into him and slowly thrusting them in and out of Bruce's fluttering hole.
"T-too…t-t-too much," Bruce whimpers, literal tears running out of the corners of his eyes and clearing tracks through the dust of destruction lightly coating his face.
“Shh, you've got this. You've gone from anal virgin to taking most of a fist. Your endurance is incredible and you've been so patient. You're such a sweetheart,” Tony rambles in an effort to distract Bruce. But when he finally judges the fit to be wide enough, nothing he says can distract Bruce from the shocking emptiness as Tony pulls out.
"F-fuck," The hand not clutching his dick scrabbles over his abdomen and hovers near his pelvis. "W-wrong. It feels - "
And then three slicked up rods of jointed titanium alloy are being pressed into the gaping hole Tony's prying wide with his free hand. "Need you to help me hold you open, baby. Lend me a hand. Spread your legs a little wider. Just like that. Good…you’ve been so pliant for me,” he says, his cadence soothing as he works the rigid digits into him.
Tony was right.
If Bruce would have had more time to consider it, he knows he’d have protested at Tony’s estimate. Four fingers along with the knuckles, just to fit three sensors? But it’s clear the estimate had been spot on. Even with all that stretching, Bruce feels sweat forming overtop his brow as the sensors sink in so fucking deep. And the whole time, Tony’s talking him through it. Hushing and cooing to soothe Bruce’s whimpers, and saying all manner of equally embarrassing and flattering things about him.
Finally, he bottoms out and Bruce can hear him mutter, “This better fucking work.” Because on top of everything, there’s no guarantee. Maybe the sensors are broken.
Jarvis puts them out of their misery. “Internal temperature detected. 108.2 degrees Fahrenheit, within one standard deviation of the recorded average normal temperature for Dr. Banner.”
Tony laughs. “See, I knew you were hot, but it turns out you’re a goddamned smokeshow.”
“Are y’sayin’ I’m a fire haz’rd? ‘Cuz, in that case ’m willin’ to concede you might be right.”
“I’m always right. And, honestly? If you’re always going to blush this much, I may need to invest in fireproof blankets,” he teases, as he slowly begins to pull the sensors out. “Also, do you mind if I finish you off? Or do you want to do the honors?”
“F-finish?”
“Well, yeah. I promised you an orgasm. Also, even fully dressed, you're not going to be able to hide your flagrant erection from regular people, let alone the Spy Kids and Wonderman. Now, I can give you some privacy, if that’s what you want,” he says, finally gentling the tips free of Bruce’s hole, “But if you’re amenable, I’d much rather fuck you to completion on my fing - ”
“F-fing’rs,” Bruce blurts out, startling himself almost as much as Tony. But he feels pared open, cored out, and left hollow.
Removing the gauntlet and tossing it over his shoulder to be caught by the Iron Man suit, Tony shifts his posture, and with it his demeanor seems to change, dark eyes piercing as they hold Bruce’s gaze captive. With both of his hands free and their primary task complete, Tony has no legitimate reason to touch him.
The only reason left is sex.
Between the tranq and the recent transformation, Bruce knows he’s not in a great position to be making objective long-term decisions. And his usual go-to move is to deny himself. It’s probably what he should be doing now - asking Tony to fetch his clothes while he finishes himself off. He’s reasoned before that Tony’s safer without the Hulk in his life, and his blood is radioactive, and he’s not nearly attractive enough for Tony to settle for him when he’s got the whole world to choose from, and Bruce is starved for affection, so he’d probably get jealous seeing Tony flirt. There are reasons he should shut this down.
But he really does feel like a livewire. Like an exposed nerve. In need of soothing. Desperate to be touched. To be filled in again and slowly tapered back down. Because right now he feels bereft .
It probably shows, since Tony starts to ramble again, swiftly covering Bruce with his body, his previously-gauntleted hand twisting into Bruce’s hair. His other hand is more careful, two fingers tracing Bruce’s rim before easily plunging in. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a lovely cock? They should have. It’s criminal if they didn’t. Looks just about long enough to feel in the back of your throat, with a mushroom head that’s just begging to be suckled. But then again, everything about you looks so perfectly…ripe,” Tony whispers right against Bruce’s mouth.
It’s too great a temptation for Bruce to resist kissing him when he’s right there. When he closes the mere centimeters between their mouths, Tony takes it as a signal. A confirmation that Bruce wants him.
The heat that sparks between them feels bone-melting as Tony licks at his lips, caressing them into parting with liquid heat, before slipping in to devour the inside of Bruce’s mouth.
Too far gone on sensation alone, Bruce can’t track where he’s being touched or how. A tug on his curls, a rub against an earlobe, a nibble at his lip, a flick at his nipple followed by a pacifying massage, and all the while he’s being drilled on two fingers after what seems like a life-time of edging. He goes over the cliff with a violent shudder, hands dragging Tony into a crushing embrace, muscles finally having regained their strength.
Tony pulls his fingers out at a leisurely pace, tracing over the walls of Bruce’s rectum, smoothing along the edges of his rim, dipping teasingly into the well-stretched cavern they’ve delved a few times before he finally pulls away.
Regrettably, they don’t get to soak in the afterglow for more than a minute before Cap’s voice comes through the earpiece once more, warning, “I’m going to storm your location if you’re not here in the next five minutes, Stark.”
“Coming,” Stark barks, tensing in irritation before sinking back into Bruce’s arms. With the comm set to interfacing with Jarvis again, he jokes, “Came, though, would be more accurate.”
“Some of us didn’t,” Bruce says, wincing in apology as he feels the hard press of Tony’s cock against his thigh.
“Oh, don’t worry. I plan to use your twisted sense of fairness to my advantage. This,” he grinds against Bruce’s leg, “Is my insurance that you’re not just going to avoid discussing this.”
“Wish I could say you didn’t need it,” Bruce mutters, arms loosening their hold on Tony so they can sit up, “but I think we both know you probably will. Fuck, your shirt!” Bruce’s hands hover, unsure of how to help a situation he created. Should he try to scoop the cum off with his fingers, or pat the area down with one of the blankets…?
“Relax. It’s fine. There’s more than one change of clothes on the quinjet and, until then, the suit will cover it,” Tony says, helping Bruce to his feet and holding tight to steady him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I feel better. More clear headed. And I’m not slurring anymore.”
Not looking terribly convinced, Tony keeps an arm looped around his waist as he leads them to a desk where a pile of clothing has been left, neatly folded. “Come on. Let’s get you dressed before Cap has an aneurysm.”
As Bruce stands there shivering while Tony dresses him with care, fingers trailing along the lines of his body, smoothing imaginary wrinkles just to prolong their final moments of solitude, he’s aware he doesn’t deserve this. Since he was brought squalling into the world, he’s been witness to proof that the profound pleasures of love and friendship are meant for other people. Kinder, more generous, less angry, less weird people.
But for once, Bruce can’t find it in himself to spare himself the heartbreak and step away from Tony and all the temptation he presents.