Steve’s eyes systematically survey the whole workshop, like he’s checking for assassins.
“Nobody here but us chickens, Cap,” Tony says.
“Right,” Steve says after a moment. Oh, that song must be from after his time, then. And here Tony thought he was being so generous by using a 1940’s reference.
Steve has that constipated, tense look on his face that Tony has only recently realized means he’s deeply uncomfortable.
This, in Tony’s experience, does not bode well.
Since the whole Thanos shit, they’ve been working together mostly by pretending nothing’s wrong. There were brief apologies before the final battle, and since then there’s been strained group bonding experiences and even more strained one-on-one encounters where they make fear-grimace-style smiles at each other and avoid standing too near each other. If Steve’s here, now, already upset, he has an agenda. Like addressing all the shit between them, or maybe just yelling at Tony. Tony wants neither.
“Your armor,” Steve finally says.
Tony doesn’t know whether to be relieved that they’re going to argue about tactics this time instead of personal issues or ethics or lies of omission or self-sacrifice. Battle strategy, armor, and nanites are straightforward territory, at least, but—but maybe a few good yelling matches about personal issues and ethics and lies of omission and self-sacrifice is what they really need.
That said. Tony’s not going to be the one to start a yelling match. Starting means ceding the high ground, he tells himself. (He ignores the part of him that says this is a particularly toddler-esque understanding of personal responsibility and communication.)
“It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it?” Tony says, already on the defense.
Steve swallows. “It really is.”
That—that is not what Tony was expecting.
It must show on his face because Steve winces, rubs the back of his neck, and plows onward. “You can use it to make anything, right?”
“Just about. But I also have fabricators—”
“Can you make something—I mean. It’s okay if it’s too weird.”
Steve looks like he’s about to flee the room, but now Tony has to know what he’s talking about. What does Steve think will be too weird for Tony? “Darling, it’s me, what’s too weird for me?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
This turns out to be the wrong move because Steve turns pink, all the way to the tips of his ears, and starts to back away. Tony grabs his wrist on impulse, which makes Steve jump—and Christ, so much for those super-soldier senses, apparently all Hydra needs to properly ambush Captain America is recruit a sleep-deprived, barefoot engineer wearing greasy drawstring pants and an inside-out USAF tee—so Tony lets go all at once and steps back, palms up in a universal sorry, my bad gesture.
Steve still looks spooked but has, at least, halted his trajectory toward the exit. “Could you use the armor nanites. To make. A toy.”
None of his cadence actually, linguistically speaking, poses a question, but Tony gets the gist. And the implication. “Well, silicone is more traditional, or thermoplastic rubber—”
“No,” Steve interrupts, firmly. He grows, somehow, even pinker, and Tony wishes they were comfortable enough with each other that he could tease and prod at that, see if he can intentionally ramp up the embarrassment, make Steve blush and laugh and shuffle his feet—but instead, here they are, with Tony desperately wondering how he can make Steve remotely at ease with this topic and Steve clearly wishing he were having this conversation with anyone else. Unfortunately for them both, if Tony understands correctly, he’s literally the only person on the planet who can help Steve with what he wants. “I’d really like it if it were made from the armor nanites.”
“Okay,” Tony says, as gently as he can. The nanites are totally body-safe, at least. “Friday, throw up some holograms, will you?” He turns back to Steve, the lights of holograms bursting to life blinking in the corner of his eye. “Clitoris or g-spot?”
Steve swallows, drawing Tony’s eyes to his throat. “Neither. Ah. Anal.”
The holograms dutifully fade away to be replaced with new ones. Tony bites the inside of his cheek to cut off his instinctual response to that and maintain as blank an expression as possible. “I gotcha, Cap, don’t worry. Does Ms. Carter already have a harness, or will something one-size-fits-all be—”
“It’s not—Sharon’s just a friend,” Steve says. “It’s for. Personal use.”
Tony deserves a fucking medal for not commenting on that. Fuck, how is he supposed to get anything done after this? Or ever, for that matter. Every time he suits up he’ll know—he’ll know—that Steve Rogers fucks himself with a toy made out of Tony’s armor. Jesus Christ.
“Gotcha,” is all Tony says, willing his voice steady.
Friday has a series of one-dimensional bezier curves hovering at eye level between them, perhaps intuiting that extruding them into three-dimensions could be overwhelming for Steve at this stage. Tony pulls at the most promising one. It floats up from the row of hyperbola and Tony puts his hands on either side and then makes a twisting motion, making it render in 3d. This one is closest to a basic butt plug: a small cylinder that tapers smoothly into a rounded not-quite point, with a wide base at one end.
“How’s this?” Tony asks. He places his palms at either end and separates them and then draws them together again, back and forth, to show how easy it is to change the size.
Steve stares, transfixed, at the glowing projection between them. Cyan sparks reflect in his eyes, cast highlights over his jaw, the tips of his hair. “Wow,” he breathes. “But I was thinking something more. Naturalistic?”
“Like, more organic?” Tony guesses. He can see how the current hyperboloid looks a bit angular, sketched out in a net of coordinates. He tugs at the curve that makes the outer surface, adding extra bulges here and there, evening out the tapers and transitions. Before their eyes, the hologram takes on various configurations: a series of smooth ellipsoids, like anal beads stacked together; an hourglass shape with sloping curves; an elongated, smoothed out version of the first design, which reminds Tony of a bong or fancy light fixture.
Steve’s mouth is slack and his eyes look a bit glazed. “No,” he says after a moment. “What about these? What do these make?” He waves a hand at the still one-dimensional lines lit in a row below the current shape.
Friday promptly renders all of them in 3d. She also, Tony notes, adds an extra shape that he knows for a fact was not among the original curves she projected. “Friday,” he chastises. “Don’t you think that’s a little—”
“Is that a tentacle?” Steve asks, voice hoarse, eyes wide. And that is precisely what it is. Okay, so, biologically speaking, if it's from an octopus or similar, it's an arm. But for the sake of conversation: it is absolutely a tentacle, complete with suckers, and just in case anyone forgot that the subject at hand is anal toys, a base at the bottom.
“Friday thinks she’s funny. Fri, don’t tease Captain America—”
“Is that something that—do people like that?”
“Yes, some people like thinking about tentacles in their ass. Or mouth, or as restraints, or whatever—”
“And you. Could make that out of your armor?”
“A tentacle? Yeah, why not?”
Steve stares. Tony stares back.
Apparently, all you need to render Tony Stark speechless is to trap him in a social situation where he has to discuss tentacle fetishes with an increasingly uncomfortable Steve Rogers. From their first argument on the helicarrier, to Ultron, to the showdown at the airport, to Thanos, somehow his relationship with Steve has brought him here, building a dildo together in Tony’s workshop at Avengers Compound and talking about—yes, really—tentacle fetishes.
Finally, Steve clears his throat. He pulls his attention away from the tentacle and points at one of the other new shapes. “Something like this.”
Tony shoves the other shapes out of the way.
Okay, so. Now he knows what Steve meant by naturalistic.
Because Steve has picked the one that’s shaped like—well. Like a cock. It has a mushroom head, and instead of just a disc-shaped base, there’s a pair of what can only be read as testicles resting at the bottom and how is this Tony’s life.
“Right. Well, this is to-scale, I mean, I can make it exactly this size, or—”
Steve winces. “A little smaller, maybe?”
“Sure, totally,” Tony says, hands somehow not faltering as he puts them at either end of the phallus. “Circumcised or not?”
“How about—oh.” Friday has discarded the render Tony was working with and replaced it with something else entirely.
Well. Not exactly.
It’s still cock-shaped. Circumcised like Steve asked, about an inch and a half shorter than the first one he’d picked out, which was probably based on commercially available toys, which in Tony's experience run much larger than human parts. It’s even more realistic than the first one, with a gentle curve to it, subtle lines on the outside like veins, furrows and puckers texturing the testicles.
“Friday, what do you think you're—”
“It’s perfect,” Steve breathes. He looks mesmerized by the dick projected before them, which is now spinning slowly, the better to show off all sides.
Tony closes his eyes and silently counts to ten. He and Friday are going to have words later.
When he opens them again, Steve is still goggling at the rendered cock.
“Right, so, I’ll just make that for you, let’s see, this afternoon, and then have a helper bot drop it off at your rooms as soon as it’s done.”
“Oh.” Steve’s attention is back on Tony’s face now, his eyes all big and blue and shit, what baby Siberian husky donated its puppy eyes to Steve? “Will it really take long?”
“Nah,” Tony says, because what the fuck else is he going say. “I can do it right now.”
He taps the arc reactor and feels the familiar flow of the nanites over his clothes. He tries not to think about Steve watching him, the same attention he gave to the tentacle and the cock rendering now focused on Tony himself. Instead of sending the mental instructions to form a standard armor configuration, he has it all cascade down one arm, coalescing into its final, phallic form in his right hand.
“Here you go,” Tony says, offering it to Steve. The shaft is primarily the main gold-titanium alloy of the suit, with crimson and silver running through it along the veins and puckers of the surface.
Tony can’t help but feel inclined to agree.
Maybe there’s something in all those complaints about egotism and narcissism.
Steve gives a final, firm nod and takes the dildo. “Thanks, Tony,” he says, his shoulders finally falling into a more relaxed position. “I—I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” Tony says, watching Steve bolt away, the cock tucked into his jacket.
He stares at the door for some moments after Steve has departed.
Coming back to himself, Tony collapses into the nearest chair. He glares at the nearest security camera. “Friday,” he says. “Want to tell me what that was about?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Boss.”
“Uh-huh,” Tony scoffs. “So that last render you made—”
“Captain Rogers clearly wanted a toy in the shape of a real human penis. I have limited data when it comes to the exact measurements of—”
“Okay, sure, right, okay, and that’s why you picked mine.”
Friday has the nerve to sound faintly affronted. “My privacy settings prevent me from gathering data of other—”
“Oh, shut it. And your excuse for the Lovecraftian one?”
Friday is silent for a moment. Then, “You may want to review the security footage of Steve’s visit, Boss.”
Tony sputters. “Excuse me?”
“Particularly, his disposition after seeing the tentacle.”
“What.” Tony grabs the nearest keyboard and begins typing furiously. “Friday, are you saying that Rogers—”
“Watch the footage, Boss.”
Tony watches the footage. Then he watches it again.
He doesn’t know how he’s ever going to armor up again. Or look at Steve again. Or eat calimari. Or—or anything, oh god, not without a raging boner.
Just like the one Steve got when he saw the tentacle.
Or the one Steve got when he got his hand on a 3d model of Tony’s cock.
“What do I do now, Friday?”
“Immediately, or existentially?” Friday replies.
Tony puts his face in his hands.