Chapter Text
For ages, he's been feeling like absolute garbage. Sick, frail, constantly.
Whatever they're injecting him with, it gives him the shakes and makes his head and stomach ache strong enough to be able to keep the fucking Hulk bedridden. And Tony's only human.
Lately he's been getting noticeably better. Somewhat. He doesn't know whether that's because the doses are being lowered, or that's he's simply developed immunity to the substance.
He doesn't know which is worse either — if they notice he's getting too used to it, they might ramp up his dosage again; but if it's being lowered on purpose, then he fears what the next step in their 'treatment' will be.
He doesn't know why Hydra is doing this to him — or rather, why he is doing this to him. At first Tony thought it was just an exotic torture method, but if it is intended to be torture, then they're missing one very crucial part of the process. That being; they haven't actually asked him for anything. Nothing about his creations or other classified information that he might possess, or any of the reasons he's usually kidnapped, really. Not that he's complaining about it — he vastly prefers being left alone over interrogation.
But that still leaves him completely in the dark, and not just because his cell is unlit. Heh.
Since his excruciating headache appears to have subsided for a merciful moment, he takes this opportunity to take in his surroundings for the second time since he got here, for once thankful he's got a built-in nightlight. Nothing has changed since he was last lucid.
The walls they're keeping him in are still the same — completely covered in metal with matte finish. One has to wonder what's wrong with a classic rock and stone dungeon. He has no windows either; no way of seeing the outside world. He has no idea where he's been taken to, nor how long it's been.
There's only an airtight door, and several small, covered vent openings (and those can't help him either — he's bloodied his finger nails trying to pry loose those damn screws).
In short; it's a cage, just missing bars to complete the aesthetic.
The worst of all — and he knows they did it specifically because their prisoner is him — there is a grand total of zero modern technology to be found in this place. The guards carry glow sticks instead of flashlights, and they all seem to be communicating directly in person, no walkie-talkies or earpieces, as far as Tony can tell.
The only advantage to it is that he can take a piss without several security cameras capturing it from every angle.
The medical personnel are the only ones carrying advanced equipment, and whenever they're forced to be in his proximity to give him his daily(?) 'medicine', they keep such a close eye on it all so that it's impossible for him to snatch anything to repurpose.
And speak of the devil.
Tony returns to lying flat on his prison bed, pretending to still be too weak to be aware of what's going on around him as he hears the door hinges croak. It's all he can do for now.
One of the doctors Tony's been forced to interact with before enters. A beta, with dark hair and eyes, like Tony himself. It's funny how these Nazis preach blood superiority, while not even a majority of their own employees have the revered blond hair and blue eyes combo.
The man approaches him without words and takes a blood sample from the inside of his elbow. It's been callously pierced with thick needles so many times, Tony doesn't think the skin will ever heal again.
The doctor scratches something down on his old-fashioned clipboard, before continuing to inspect him. Temperatures are taken, blood pressures measured, the whole shebang. Tony doubts there's anything interesting to notice, but it still makes him fear that he might be giving himself away.
Then; "How are you feeling today?"
… And that's odd, to say the least. He doesn't remember the medics ever asking him how he was feeling. Because, obviously, his comfort is — and always has been — completely irrelevant to them.
"Like shit, what did you expect?" he replies, voice raspy from disuse.
The doctor chuckles, like he pities Tony. "You're doing very well. Almost done; one more dose, I'd say."
Tony has learned not to ask 'of what?', because all it accomplishes is making him look and feel more like a confused idiot. He supposes he will find out soon enough anyway.
The doctor quickly administers his 'treatment', and takes his leave without further probing. Small mercies.
It's quiet for a while, and even after the substance has surely run its course by now, Tony still feels brighter than he has in a while; his head doesn't hurt as much, and he's able to think again.
He's about to celebrate by further developing his work-in-progress plan of escape, when one of the guards decides to come in; an alpha. Though he's not unfamiliar, he must have put on some new cologne since Tony encountered him last, because his body odor is a lot more pleasant now than it has been. Tony is almost inclined to ask what brand, it smells so good.
"Ah, look at you," the guard says. Another round of pointless teasing, Tony closes his eyes in exhaustion and decides to just ignore him. It works sometimes, which is the best he can hope for.
He feels a hand on his upper arm.
They do this, too; touching him. They like poking and squeezing him, trying to get a rise out of him since he's too weak to fight back. Never anything that leaves a lasting mark; that privilege is reserved for the medics.
Then the hand moves down his body, lingering at his hip, before fondling his privates through the thin clothing. It makes him flinch in surprise. They've never touched him like this. Tony tears open his eyes to look at the alpha accusingly.
The man just smiles at him ominously, only amused at Tony's reaction.
"What do you think you're doing?" Tony asks with a snarl, when the alpha still refuses to keep his hands to himself.
"Just having a feel," the alpha muses. "Admiring the goods."
"You can admire the goods from your post," Tony snaps back.
"Nah." The alpha shrugs, and massages Tony's ass cheek. "I have a better idea."
"Fuck off." Tony raises his leg to kick him away, but in his lingering disorientation he's simply too slow to land a proper hit, and his leg is pinned back to the bed. The alpha comes uncomfortably close, and a pit of unease forms inside Tony's stomach. Never before has he wished for the presence of more guards. They might be less bold when not left by their lonesome.
Then the most bizarre statement reaches Tony's ears — "Been a while since I've deflowered a virgin."
He can't help but scoff, "do you not realize who you're talking to? I have been the furthest thing from a virgin for decades."
The guard hoists up his head by the hair, and presses his face to Tony's neck, taking in a deep breath. Tony is still too weak to run away from the touch, but he's surprised to find out that his body is — oddly enough — not going into flight response anyway, and he can tell he's not frozen in fear either. What the hell is happening?!
"Your scent says different," the alpha says with another devious smile as he pulls back his face. "I was able to caught a whiff from all the way outside, too."
"My-" Tony wants to ask, but is cut off by a hand invading the back of his pants, as the alpha rudely gropes him and eventually finds what he's looking for — and pushes one of his thick fingers inside Tony's asshole.
It hurts, but it's moreso the shock than actual pain. It doesn't sting like it usually does — like it should — and it doesn't feel dry, either. The alpha must have lubed up his finger beforehand; the motherfucker had a plan.
The finger is removed soon after, and the alpha brings it up to his face to inspect the liquid coating it.
"Look at that, already wet," the alpha notes with a dark chuckle. And that confuses Tony most of all, but only for a fraction of a second before it hits him. What the injections and invasive tests were for, why everything feels so strange, why the alpha seems to smells different — it isn't so much that the scent has changed, but Tony's own receptors reacting differently, tricking him into… making him think that…
He swallows nervously as it all sinks in.
They've turned him into an omega.
And the alpha can smell it.
"Fuck," is all he manages to breathe.
The alpha laughs again, a haunting sound. "Yes, that's what I'm going to do to you."
"No, no, get the fuck off of me," Tony growls, but there's no real threat behind it. They both know it's hollow. Fuck, no, fuck-
The alpha flings him from the bed onto his stomach, face smashed against the cold, unforgiving floor of the metal cage. Tony tries crawling away, but he's pinned in place before he can attempt anything else.
"I'll break that spirit before long," the alpha says as he climbs fully on top of Tony — almost crushing him from how much larger and stronger he is — and pulls his pants down far enough to gain access in earnest. A whimper of dread that escapes Tony. This time, he does freeze, fists closed around nothing. His new instincts don't seem to prioritize a fear response.
New instincts, Oh god…
Tony doesn't have time to process this revelation, nor the sound of a zipper being opened before he's being breached — the alpha takes little care as he tries to crudely shove his dick in. Tony can't bite back a yelp of pain; whatever lubrication might have been present is barely doing anything.
As the hard length is forced further and further into his untrained and woefully unprepared insides, the stretch is already near unbearable; but then, to top it all off, he feels himself tear. He screws his eyes and jaws shut as he suffers the vast wave of unbridled agony pulsing through him; not permitted a moment to adjust as the alpha gleefully continues assaulting him through it.
Tony thinks he passes out for a minute there, because when he opens his eyes again they're watery with tears he doesn't remember ever forming, and he's being held up by the hair as the alpha spits in his ear; "keep 'em open, slut, you're gonna want to stay here for this."
He does not stop thrusting for even a second, stabbing through Tony's organs, feels like, and Tony can feel thick warmth trickling down his thighs. It's mental how glad he is for the blood that's helping slick the way; it gives him the slightest sliver of hope that he's got the worst part over with.
Said hope is crushed immediately, when he hears a second pair of heavy boots enter the cage. Another alpha, Tony realizes as the dreaded scent reaches his nose.
"Goddamnit, man, I thought you were-" the newcomer begins, but stops once he gets closer. "oh."
The first alpha chuckles, "I know, smells good, ey? You can have him after I'm done."
"No!" Tony's eyes widen in alarm. Without thinking, he throws his head back and hits the alpha in his teeth, which only succeeds in worsening his headache and pissing the alpha off more. He presses Tony to the ground once more, all but fully immobilizing him, and speeds up his thrusts.
"Just lay down and take it, you know what you're good for," he heaves, "so fucking tight-" He cuts himself off with a loud groan as the rhythm of his thrusts falters.
Tony feels disgusting warmth flooding inside him. It truly seems like it gushes all the way up to his stomach, because he feels the urge to vomit. He makes more embarrassing noises, but nothing substantial comes out. For the first time, he's glad the treatment killed his appetite.
The alpha suddenly retreats, half-formed knot tugging at Tony's abused rim on its way out. He's so, so thankful that the alpha decided to pull out before Tony was locked together with this monster until the knot would deflate. He's never even been knotted before, and he doesn't want to know how abhorrent it is.
Air rushes inside to fill the void the alpha's cock left behind; it stings his open wounds, sending shivers of cold and pain up Tony's spine. Shit, he can feel and hear the drip of hot cum leaking from him. It's all he can focus on as he lies there; mind playing catch-up on what just happened.
"I'll be right back," the alpha says, presumably standing back up. His voice becomes increasingly faint as he leaves the cage, saying, "all yours," to the other alpha that just stood there and watched. The one Tony had forgotten about.
"Don't," Tony whispers to him. He is ignored.
"Ah, look at you," the alpha muses, and he lets his hands — noticeably smaller than the other alpha — travel Tony's exposed skin. Tony doesn't flinch away this time, but he can't keep himself from trembling either. He just… His mind's gone blank, he doesn't know what to do.
Betas don't get educated on how to act in situations like this. Is he supposed to fight back with all his might? Or just settle down and relax to minimize damage?
Before he can make a decision, Small-hands grabs ahold of him proper, painfully digging into his chafed skin, and hauls him up from the floor.
"Let me see that pretty face," he says as he pulls Tony up to a kneeling position, and angles up his face with a hand on his jaw. At last, Tony's brain sparks with an idea, and he's unable to resist.
He bites down as hard as he can, which — to be honest — isn't that hard, but it's enough to make the alpha stagger back, cursing, and bloody fingers held close.
"Fuck!"
As soon as he overcomes the shock, he charges Tony and backhands him across the face, hard. It makes his vision go white, then black, then blurry, and no matter how much he blinks, he can't get his eyes to refocus. That's not good.
Tony realizes that he's once again lying on the floor (he doesn't remember the impact of falling), head throbbing, and desperately trying to curl up into a ball to protect his vital organs.
He hears the string of curses coming from Small-hands pause, and subsequently feels the alpha spit on his face.
He's been spat on before, and it's far from the most disgusting thing he's gone through today, and he much prefers it to another slap or a kick, but somehow it hits a lot harder. He can't help but feel even more degraded than he already did.
"Christ, I leave you alone with him for 2 fucking seconds-" the original alpha sighs in exasperation, apparently already back from wherever he went. Tony has a harrowing hunch he'll find out soon enough.
"The fucking bitch bit me," Small-hands snaps at him.
"Of course he did!" the first laughs. "He's not gonna go down without putting up a fight, didn't you pay attention? You gotta make him submit, conquer him. That's the fun part!" Tony is helpless as he once again feels himself being hoisted up by the hair. The alpha looks him in the face, fleetingly inspects his injuries.
"Probably nothing permanent, he's good to go." The alpha releases him; Tony is barely able to keep himself from full-on face-planting with shaking arms. "Now, grab him by the scruff and hold him down, or do I need to do it for you?"
The second alpha huffs and does as he's suggested without another word, harshly grabbing Tony's neck, gripping far tighter than necessary, and taking his position behind him.
Tony closes his eyes again and tries to force his muscles to relax, because he's not fighting his way out of this one. He… has to accept that his body isn't his own for the coming minutes. It is only for a few minutes that he won't be able to control what happens. He just has to… get through that.
The alpha shoving his meat into him still manages to take him by surprise. Maybe it's because he's already bleeding, but it hurts even worse this time; an unlubed cock grazing along his already-battered insides. He can't stop the screams from escaping.
He never wanted to know what it was like. He hopes and honest-to-fucking-god prays that he won't have to do it ever again.
A particularly cruel thrust forces a pathetic whine from him.
A new voice (fuck, there's three of them now) laughs loudly in mockery, "that's what managed to bite you?"
Small-hands slows his thrusts in order to reply; "he's only so slow because I beat him for it. Want a demonstration, perhaps?"
"I was just messing with you," the newcomer chuckles light-heartedly in response. "Get on with it already!"
Small-hands huffs and scoffs and continues his thrusting; more aggressively, as if to prove a point. He also takes long to finish.
He's granted to rest; the third lines himself up practically immediately after the second leaves.
"Take your chance, before the bitch becomes off-limits. Don't knot him though, it'd take too long and we all want a turn," the alpha that had taken him first explains.
Tony's not really processing any of their words anymore, but that statement makes him do a double take. He thought there were three alphas in here (and that it was almost over-), but now it sounds like there are more still to…
He can't keep track. Focusing only makes him realize that much more how his body is hurting, so he quits trying before he completely loses it.
He doesn't even know what "it" he has left to lose.
"I haven't had an om in months," one alpha says.
"So sloppy and loose already," says another.
"Such a cock-hungry whore, his ass swallows me right up!"
"That's right, be a good bitch for me."
Whenever he begs for them to stop, he's laughed at.
It does not end.
It does not end.
The "conquest" the first alpha spoke of is unceremonious — slowly his body just stops struggling so much, stops trying to get away, stops fighting back. It doesn't quite feel like submission, but it's also not not that.
Perhaps that is why the alphas don't seem to make a big deal out of it either. Just a single disgusting remark about how he's "learning his place". Among everything else going on, it was rather easy to tune out.
His body is slowly but surely adjusting to the intrusions, like only an omega's can.
He hates that he can tell the clear difference. It only further confirms it, to the point of no questioning.
Of course, it still stings like all hell — how could it not, with his fucking insides torn to shreds — but at least it's tolerable now. Enough so that he can keep himself from screaming in pain with every thrust.
He keeps his head down, and tries to focus on the sound of his breathing, to keep it steady and to keep his whimpers of pain hushed as much as possible.
He just wants it to be over, but the happenings in his cage gain more and more traction the longer they go on, and it seems that all alphas in a ten mile radius want a bite of him. Or the same few are passing him around multiple times, who the fuck knows at this point.
"C'mon, do something," the latest — number six, maybe — spits in his ear as he tries poking and shoving Tony into action. He's already stuck his dick in, but apparently that's not enough. "I've been told you were a fighter, where's all that fire from before, hmm?"
The first alpha chuckles — the damn sadist loves sticking around. "He's developed a different kind of fire. It's his nature now; can't help but submit to us, and love it. Try fucking him harder, that'll make him squirm again."
The alpha on top of him takes the advice without argument, pulling back his thick cock entirely before slamming back in full-force, repeating the movement faster and faster.
The thing is, it does work. The harsher thrusts cause his body to convulse in response. He's not in control of it, but then again, he hasn't been in control of anything since he was thrown to the floor.
At some point during this brutal fucking, however, something miraculous happens — he finally begins to pass out. Pain, exhaustion, or a horrible mix of the two. Either way, he's grateful he is finally able to embrace unconsciousness and be away from all this, for the time being, at least. Maybe.
"What the fuck are you doing?" someone calls out.
It drags Tony back from sweet, sweet nothingness. He doesn't need to concentrate to know he's still being fucked into, even after however long he was gone for. Perhaps it was only a minute. What difference would it make anyway?
The voice that cut in is yet another new one. It sounded livid, and afraid. And also like it was said underwater, but Tony knows that can't be right.
"What does it look like we're doing?" the first alpha answers.
"We were ordered not to touch him! This is treason, he'll kill you for-"
"What the Captain doesn't know, doesn't hurt him."
"You honestly believe he won't find out about this? Stop this right now, you fucking idiots!"
"Fuck no," the one that's currently mounting Tony cuts in, "I haven't even-" He loses his sentence in a deep, satisfied groan, helpfully letting Tony know that he's finally coming. He can't feel it anymore, his insides are already plastered with warm stickiness, everywhere. All hollowed out and disgusting.
Please, let it be over now.
He doesn't think he says (mutters?) it out loud, but who can tell. Certainly not him. He's aware enough to continue suffering, but not enough to coordinate his body's actions.
The alpha unceremoniously drops him to the floor, like he's a broken toy that's of no use anymore.
Not too far off.
It's not a great fall, but it still hurts. Everything does.
He's pretty sure no one's physically touching him anymore, but he still feels hands gripping and pulling at him all over his body (it's over now, isn't it, so it's his body again?). It's too hot and too cold at the same time, and there's still nothing he can do to make it all stop. He can't even dissociate to get away, his brain seemingly too eager to keep him in this reality.
This is your new reality, echoes ominously inside his weary mind.
This is your new reality.
He doesn't even care anymore if the alphas can hear his whimpers.
Someone takes place next to him. He tries to shrink away, but he just… has lost all strength.
Don't touch me, he begs silently.
They touch him.
Head, neck, backside.
In concept the touches are not aggressive or cruel or invasive, but still they seem to melt into his skin like white-hot metal straight out the forge, to the point that he honestly believes they'll leave scars.
"He needs medical attention," the owner of those wicked hands says, not to Tony. "I pray for all of your sakes that you haven't done anything permanent."
Small mercy — he's unconscious for most of his medical treatment. Whether he passed out again or was sedated, he can't tell.
He's resting now, eyes closed and trying desperately not to think of what happened. It's difficult — too much so — when his fresh injuries are still a stinging reminder. He doesn't have enough painkillers in his system.
At least this bed, an actual honest-to-god bed, is miles more comfortable than the one in the cage. And he's got a blanket, something covering him. There's that.
He wishes he had the will to enjoy the small things.
The personnel are minding their own business, muttering among themselves, when a man enters. Tony opens his eyes to slits upon hearing the more than familiar footsteps. He has his fists clenched white and stomps his boots as he walks. Obviously beyond furious, though it's mercifully not directed towards him, Tony can tell.
He doubts this man is the highest authority among Hydra's ranks, but he sure is up there, and he's at least got command of this site and its personnel, wherever it might be located.
Tony has never seen him take an order before, only give.
"Captain," the doctor greets him. That's what they call him. Tony internally dubs him 'Not-Steve'.
He has no idea for how long Hydra has had an evil clone of Captain America at their disposal, or how they managed to create one in the first place; but he supposes that it's only one little step removed from alien gods.
No, it's not Not-Steve's existence itself that is so strange, per se; it's more how his presence makes Tony feel that's unnerving.
He looks, sounds and even smells just like the Steve he knows. He has this… aura of trustworthiness around him — leftovers from Tony's interactions with the real deal, his friend (and — admittedly — long-term crush).
This man before him shouldn't spark the same feelings in him. He is nothing but a bastardization. The rational part of Tony is furious that Hydra would even dare appropriate Steve's image like this, but at the same time, it's so very difficult to show anger at someone wearing the face that he loves so dearly.
"How is he?" Not-Steve asks.
It doesn't help that he's about the only person here that pretends to care about Tony's well-being.
"We're lucky the treatment was close to finishing, or this situation could have been far worse. Mostly it looks worse than it is; all visible injuries are relatively minor, some bruises and scrapes, nothing broken or even sprained. The main things to look out for is the concussion and internal bleeds. Neither should have any long-term effects with the right medicine; but we should keep a close eye on those stitches. Solid foods are also off-limits for the time bring."
Not-Steve nods slowly. "That will be arranged. Thanks, doc."
The doctor falls silent for a brief second before he continues, reluctantly; "Regarding the, uh-" He opens his clean, gloved hand to unveil a tiny object in his palm.
"Give it to me." Not-Steve holds out his own hand, and the doctor passes it to him at once.
"Leave us," the Captain then commands as he pockets it. The other man obeys him without further question.
As soon as they're alone, Not-Steve takes his seat next to the hospital bed. Tony has since closed his eyes again to half-heartedly feign sleep. He just wants to be left alone.
"You're awake," Not-Steve notes. Tony gives in and looks at him, but doesn't respond — he doesn't want to find out how much his throat would burn if he tried, and it's also plain not worth the trouble trying to converse with this guy.
"That shouldn't have happened," Not-Steve tries again. "I'm sorry."
Tony scowls at him for that — no you're not, but he keeps his mouth shut.
Not-Steve ignores his angry expression. "I want you to know that all of them have been punished accordingly. They won't be hurting you again."
Tony tries rolling his eyes, but his head still hurts too much to go through with it.
He'll believe they've all been executed once he sees bodies. There's absolutely no way Hydra would kill their own men for torturing a prisoner.
It's a mind game. This pretending to care about Tony being hurt, it is all to earn his trust, manipulate him — hell, it was probably Not-Steve that orchestrated the whole ordeal in the first place. He hasn't considered it before, but it makes far too much sense that it was all staged.
Not-Steve is a great actor; the look in his eyes genuinely looks like one of pity, and regret.
"Before I can let you rest and recover, there's one other thing," Not-Steve says softly as he reaches beside him to retrieve a small object from his pocket; the one the doctor gave him.
Not-Steve places it in front of him, on the sheets, and it's close enough for even Tony's blurry vision to identify — it's a small, round pill. Tony physically recoils. He really doesn't feel like being drugged with dubious substances again.
"What's that?" he asks, trying — and failing — to mask his fear.
"Emergency contraceptive."
Tony blinks stoically. "But why?"
It very much isn't his field of expertise, but he is somewhat familiar with the concept of hormone-induced designation changes. Based on his comparatively limited but still more-than-the-average-human knowledge of endocrinology, the changes that follow would be mostly psychological, and — of course — hormonal. There shouldn't be any drastic purely physical effects; it shouldn't cause organs that weren't previously there to spawn inside your body. He couldn't have grown a uterus, just like that.
But he couldn't have grown pores to excrete slick, either.
He mentally shakes his head. It must've been arranged so that it merely looked like his body suddenly has the capability to produce its own lubricant, even if it was biologically impossible. It's all part of the trick. This kind of manipulation is right up Hydra's alley.
"It's fine if you don't believe me yet, you'll come around eventually, but you are taking that. I'm not raising another alpha's pups," Not-Steve says. He sounds disappointed, but Tony has no will left in him to find pride in that. He's more focused on what exactly Not-Steve is saying. The downright terrifying implications of his future plans for him.
"Open up," Not-Steve tells him, pill in hand again. "Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be."
He speaks true — even if Not-Steve has regular human strength, overpowering Tony and forcing things into him would be a piece of cake, as much as Tony loathes to admit it.
Despite being practically being the only baseline human in a team of supers, he's not used to being so vulnerable, so weak.
Still, Tony refuses to budge; keeping his jaws firmly locked together.
Not-Steve sighs, and leans over him, casting a too-large shadow. He touches Tony's lower jaw, before hooking his fingers between his lips and prying open Tony's mouth with just the one hand, all without breaking a sweat. Tony strains against it, but all it seems to do is make it hurt more.
Before, it was kind of up in the air whether or not Not-Steve had undergone a Project Rebirth of his own. At least now there's confirmation on that. Things just keep getting better.
With his vacant hand, Not-Steve shoves the pill to the back of Tony's throat, before pulling out and closing Tony's mouth, placing his hands there to keep it firmly shut. It's enough to make him start to panic.
It does not take long — the pill slides down without much resistance, despite Tony's efforts. He manages to do it without choking, and briefly wonders whether that's because the pill was simply too small and inconspicuous to trigger his gag reflex, or because said reflex is normally absent in omegas…
Not-Steve's hand lingers on the side of his face in a mockery of gentleness. Tony just wants him to stop touching.
When he looks up, he expects to see Not-Steve's smug expression telling him "see, that wasn't so bad, now was it?", but instead the man's face is completely neutral, and silent.
It's worse, to not know what he's thinking. Tony's getting tired of the games.
"What do you want?" he asks, not for the first time.
"You." Not-Steve replies.
"To do what?"
"Be mine."
Tony scoffs, "do you honestly expect me to buy that this is Hydra's great master plan? To turn me into their soldier's whore?"
"Because it's not. It's mine." Not-Steve says firmly. "Don't undersell yourself, you'll be do much more than a lowly whore. I want you up there, by my side. We can do so much good together, Tony, I know it. And I also know that soon you will see it that way, too. It's only a matter of time."
Before Tony can protest, he continues; "I'm not in any rush. I'll let you heal for now. We'll discuss this some more once you've had your first heat. Or sooner, if impatience strikes you. Just let me know."
Heat. Shit. He completely forgot about that part. Being an omega means inevitably going into heat.
Regular omegas have the time to get used to increasingly intense heats as they go through puberty, but no such chance is lent to omegas who are the result of bitching (because that's what happened to him, isn't it? He was bitched-).
So that's their plan — to render him completely incoherent in a haze of hormone-induced confusion, desperate to do nothing but be fucked. To the point that he'll agree to anything his captors wish. Automatically, his legs move closer together, even though it hurts.
He shakes his head. It's just torture, he reminds himself, it's just another form of torture. He can deal with that, he's done it before. Tony Stark doesn't break under torture.
He doesn't need to outplay them for long, just savor the strength he has until the others find him, break him out, and burn this whole place to the ground.
Afterwards, he can reverse the process and turn him back to his normal, beta self. It's risky, but he'll be damned if he allows Hydra to leave their filthy mark on him. He refuses to let them win.
His friends, the real Steve, will find him and bring him home. And that's only if he doesn't manage to escape on his own first.
It'll turn out okay, in the end.