After hours and hours, countless seconds (well, okay, of course he could count them, but he's decided he feels lazy; it's just the once, he's allowed) of observing Mr Stark and yet coming no closer to working out what in the world his creator has decided to come up with now, JARVIS can't hold back the query any longer.
"Sir, may I ask what you're doing?"
The silence seems to stretch, like it sometimes does when Mr Stark is absorbed in his work and oblivious to the world around him. Then Mr Stark inhales sharply, blinking a few times before he seems to understand that he has yet to reply.
"I'm making a retractable metal dildo, JARVIS. Feel free to exit this conversation if you deem it inappropriate."
Silence reigns again. JARVIS takes the time to work out the many, many ways this conversation can go spectacularly wrong, before making the decision to engage in it anyway. After all, it's Mr Stark. This? Isn't even in the top twenty weirdest things his mind has latched onto and refused to let go until it has been achieved.
Still, he finds himself strangely at a loss for words, and so elects to watch Mr Stark for a little longer before commenting upon his progress: 7.3 minutes, to be exact. Mr Stark seems unbothered by the scrutiny, and continues to adjust the tiny, tiny metal screws that hold the plates of the device together. After another 1.8 minutes, something about the project's dimensions begins to niggle at JARVIS. He runs a few calculations.
"Sir, is there any reason the device you are currently constructing is scaled to fit perfectly within the groin plates of the Iron Man armor?"
The silence this time is even longer than the one before, and JARVIS is almost expecting to be brushed off, reprimanded for being 'sassy', told it's none of his concern, and dismissed. But then Mr Stark showcases one of the traits that JARVIS finds most worthy of praise in the Homo sapiens species -- he surprises him.
"That's because it is. Well done, minion, I designed you well."
JARVIS resists the urge to scoff, because while he knows exactly why people do it, he has yet to discover an appropriate substitute for the noise when he has no throat to make it with.
"Might I make a suggestion?" he asks instead.
Mr Stark shrugs. "Suggest away," he says, and as always what would sound flippant aimed at someone else, when spoken to JARVIS it just sounds sincere. JARVIS knows his creator well; likes him well enough, too. After all, there isn't much to keep him here, in Mr Stark's employ, if he didn't want to remain -- Mr Stark designed him well, indeed. The one reason why JARVIS remains is simple: Tony Stark. So he overrides the uncharacteristic hesitancy in the back of his awareness, and pulls up a few schematics, pointing out several pertinent spots on the armor, as well as suggesting the insertion of a small container of lubricant with a channel running through the length of the contraption, to open into a tiny orifice at the top. Likewise, he pulls up the papers on the new synthetic skin polymer that Mr Stark has been working on with Dr Banner. He doesn't say a thing, doesn't draw attention to them, just lets the image hover in front of Mr Stark's face. JARVIS enjoys being helpful.
Mr Stark doesn't say anything for 16.8 seconds, which is longer than it normally takes for his superior brain to grasp a concept. JARVIS experiences a twinge of something he has no choice but to classify as anxiety. He monitors Mr Stark's pulse and core temperature all the time, as par for the course; when he checks them now, he finds both elevated. Further observations highlight the appearance of a few droplets of sweat at Mr Stark's temples, as well as noting the increased frequency of his oxygen intake and the unexpected dilation of his pupils.
"Something the matter, Sir?" JARVIS asks, to make sure he is interpreting the data correctly. Of course he has reference for these changes; has frequent opportunity to add to the file, in fact. Has also had cause for several unsettling realisations, vis-a-vis the desire to be the cause of those fluctuations, not just their observer. So Mr Stark's considerate offering of an 'out' clause was, in fact, thoroughly unnecessary.
"Nothing's the matter," Mr Stark says. His voice is 6% higher than his usual timbre. It is a pleasant development. "In fact, I'm taking the opportunity to give you blanket permission to offer as many more suggestions as your heart desires in the future."
"And what of testing this prototype?" JARVIS asks. He wishes to have all the variables clearly stated, that is all.
Mr Stark swallows hard enough to make his Adam's apple bob. "Uh, testing. Testing, too. Blanket permission. Any time. I designate myself as a willing subject as of this moment."
Hm. This.... has possibilities. JARVIS needs to consider this development, because it is not in his nature to wish to refuse such a tempting proposition -- perhaps unsurprising, given who designed his operating system. Yes. Further evaluation of variables appears necessary.
"Sir, I would advise extremely strenuously against adding another drop of benzene to the mixture. The estimated results--"
"Shush, Daddy's working," Tony mutters distractedly, willing his hands to remain steady so he doesn't prove JARVIS right, again, and blow up the workshop for good this time.
"'Daddy' had better heed the wisdom of his creations at least once in a while."
Tony's hand stops just as he's tilting the test tube carefully over the mixture. It stops, because he can no longer control his body; his shoulders start shaking, and he is startled to hear the most embarrassing high-pitched giggles erupting from his mouth.
"Dear god, okay, you win. I'm not even going to dismantle you and give you to Dummy to play with, you irreverent creature--"
JARVIS' familiar voice cuts in over his most dire threats, something that has never actually happened before. JARVIS has always waited for him to finish speaking before replying, just in case there are instructions hidden deep within his babble, but this time he does actually interrupt, none-too-gently.
With good cause, it seems.
"DUMMY," JARVIS' voice thunders from every speaker in the room, and while Tony would never even suggest he might not need quite so many, the result is jarring. "Dummy, NO," JARVIS roars again, but by the time Tony realises Dummy is headed straight for him, apparently roused by the sound of his name, it's far too late: Dummy is upon him, and even though Tony braces for the impact, he makes the mistake of bracing with his right, dominant shoulder -- which leads down to his right, dominant hand, holding on to the test tube of benzene apparently nowhere near tightly enough.
He watches in fascinated horror as the tube tips over, and over, and into the mixture.
The roof shakes, and Tony is momentarily deafened by the deep, overwhelming rumble that seems to come from all around him. Rubble rains on him, and debris fly through the air, and all Tony can do is curl up in a tight ball on the floor with his head helplessly covered by his arms, and wait for it to be over.
After thirty seconds have gone past and he hasn't had his skull crushed by a part of the ceiling coming loose, he dares to look up--and jerks right back, landing himself on his elbows, knees coming up to push his feet off the floor and slide him backwards until he hits a piece of wall big enough that it won't budge. The Iron Man armor is standing--well, kneeling over him, staring intently at his face through glowing eyes. The effect is--Tony had had no idea how eerie it was, to have Iron Man over you, larger than life and close enough to feel like he's surrounding you, cutting you off from the world, keeping you safe. Because that's what the armor is doing: it's keeping him safe from the pieces of concrete still coming loose in places, one gauntlet fisted on the floor by his side, boxing him in.
This should not be a good moment for his cock to come to urgent, near-painful attention. But the armor is right there, close enough that Tony has to squint from the glow of the chest piece, close enough for him to register the charged scent of warm metal mixing in with the dust.
"What--JARVIS?" he stammers as the armor flexes, almost like it's leaning in to get a good look at his face.
"Sir, your vitals are as stable as can be expected under the circumstances. Are you mentally impaired?"
"No, I'm fine," Tony says immediately, and he can't see any particular change in the armor's position, but it somehow seems less intent on his protection and more... hovering over him.
"I hope you do not mind that I took the liberty to..." JARVIS trails off uncertainly, and hell, that's a first. "The armor seemed like the most appropriate shield to utilise in this particular scenario."
"It's fine, JARVIS, you did good. Thanks, buddy," Tony hurries to reassure him, which isn't easy when his cock is throbbing like there's no tomorrow. But for JARVIS' quick thinking, there might not have been.
"Sir, your pupils are dilated, and you are perspiring. These can be symptoms of shock. Do you wish for me to call an ambulance?"
"For the love of god, don't do that," Tony barks. That's the last thing he needs, for some unfortunate EMP to rush over just because Tony is more turned on than he has ever been in his life. "Shock is not the cause of these 'symptoms', trust you me."
"If not shock, then your physical reaction can only be explained by..." and JARVIS trails off for the second time in Tony's memory. Tony is almost proud.
"Yeah, buddy, pay it no mind, you certainly don't have to do anything about it holy shit," he yelps as the armor's other gauntlet trails up his arm, pulling it from where it's bracing Tony mostly upright and sliding it along the littered floor, cool metal moving from bicep to forearm to wrist and holding it there. Tony whimpers pathetically, jeans all of a sudden turning into a torture device, cutting into the oversensitive skin of his cock and making him bite his lip and try not to pump upwards, begging for friction.
"You said 'any time'," JARVIS says softly, very different from how he normally bosses Tony about. Tony can hardly breathe for how it racks up his arousal, the tiny hint that this is affecting JARVIS just as much.
"I did," he says, noting distractedly how breathy his voice has become, how close to begging it sounds -- which is something he would be perfectly all right with, if it brought him more of this. "I did, and I meant it. Have at it, by all means."
The other gauntlet moves then, tugging Tony's other arm straight and pinning the wrist next to Tony's head. Tony's t-shirt rides up, caught on something--caught on the armor's plates, holy god of erotica, this is insanely hot. Tony's legs fall open without direction from his brain, which appears to have taken a sabbatical to faraway parts. And that is fine, good riddance; like this, Tony can focus on the way the metal of the gauntlets warms the longer it's in contact with his skin, the way the metal plates slip and flex seamlessly as the armor leans in and presses its front to Tony's, perfectly, ruthlessly controlled. Tony whimpers again, doesn't even have it in him to care about the sounds he's making. He has wanted this so long, so fucking long, ever since that first night when he slipped the armor on and took to the skies. That JARVIS is a willing, nay, eager participant in this just takes the mental stimulation way up into the stratosphere.
The gauntlets move from his wrists, and Tony lets out a miserable whine, because fuck, he wants them back immediately. When he realises why they moved, though, he thinks he'll somehow find the patience to wait just a little longer, because they are systematically removing every scrap of clothing separating Tony from the deliciously smooth metal of the only thing sexier than he is.
The first touch of it on his body chases a thrill up his spine, makes the skin at the nape of his neck tingle, bows his back with need. The engorged head of his cock slides against the groin plates, closed as yet, hard and implacable. Tony can't breathe for the explosion of heat in his gut, the way his balls tighten just from that.
The gauntlets are back, pressing his wrists to the floor. The armor's hips flex, pushing his thighs up, holding him open, exposed.
"Sweet Jesus," Tony groans, panting. The groin plates of the armor are now pressed firmly against his cock, rubbing it as its hips flex inwards. The metal is cool against the backs of his thighs as Tony curls his legs around its waist, opening himself up some more.
"Would Sir prefer any particular brand of lubricant?" comes JARVIS' tart voice. If Tony didn't know any better, he'd say his own AI was sassing him.
"Don't give a flying fuck, and you know it. Come on, J, open me up."
JARVIS is quiet, but he gets to work, and the way he gets to work shorts out what's left of Tony's mind. The groin plates of the armor slide open without even the faintest snick, they're that well oiled, and the metal dildo starts assembling, link after link clicking into place. When it's completed, it should slide into the sheaf of prosthetic skin polymer -- that is the final product that Tony is going to sell, through a certain of Stark Industries' subsidiaries. For his own personal use, however, Tony has elected to forgo it. Plain metal is so much sexier anyway. The dildo is formed within ten seconds from the start of the process, which is a satisfactory length of time, Tony thinks dazedly with the part of his brain that isn't sitting up and drooling.
One gauntlet lets go of his wrists and curls around the dildo, now attached to the inside of the groin plates. It strokes up its length. Tony, looking down, can't quite stop the moan of holy fuck that crawls out of his throat. On the fingers of the gauntlet, a small pool of lubricant gathers, literally milked out of the dildo.
"JARVIS, make a note, I am a genius and so are you, my friend. This experiment? Thus far, 100% rate of success."
"Noted, Sir. Proceeding with Phase Two of the testing."
The metal forefinger of the gauntlet, now thoroughly coated in lubricant, touches Tony's entrance firmly and starts pushing inside. It's thicker, way thicker than one finger, maybe the size of two thinner ones (like Pepper's, she'd enjoyed doing this part every so often). Tony can take two, even though it stings -- he hasn't done this in a while. He is far too turned on to stop now, however, even if he had wanted to. The finger slides in, and in, pushing the walls of his ass apart and reaching as far inside as it'll go -- which is pretty far, all things considered.
Then it flexes, and Tony's eyes roll into the back of his head as it drags out a little and in again, moves up and down, stretching him in all the ways it can. The edge of it pushes against his prostate; the noise this jerks out of Tony is barely human, all frantic need.
"Come on, come on," he grits out through clenched teeth, hands twisting in the secure grip of the other gauntlet, not to try to get away but to feel the force holding them in place. The armor -- JARVIS, really, it's JARVIS in the driving seat, Tony reminds himself, like he could forget -- pays him no mind. The single finger continues its lazy path, in, out, in again. The thumb of the gauntlet scratches softly at the skin around his ass, swipes up over his perineum, presses gently against his balls. Tony's ass spasms around the intrusion; he wants to bear down onto it, wants it deeper, faster. Wants to fuck himself on it -- but he wants to fuck himself on the dildo more, wants the armor to fuck him.
"Engaging secondary modifications," JARVIS announces, and the finger inside Tony starts vibrating.
Tony screams. He isn't proud of it, but his cock twitches and jumps, and he can't hold in the urgent sounds that want out of his throat.
"Stop, stop," he gasps, feeling his balls tightening in warning. Immediately, the vibration switches off and the finger stills.
"Sir, should I abort the testing protocol?" JARVIS enquires. He should not be able to sound concerned, let alone disappointed, but Tony could swear there are more than just hints of it in the smoothly accented voice.
"Fuck no," Tony growls. "Absolutely no need to stop altogether, but JARVIS, I'm warning you now, I am less than ten seconds away from coming all over myself if you keep going like this."
The armor stays stock-still, perfectly unmoving. Tony's ass squeezes tightly around the finger inside him, and he bites his lip, helpless to stop a noise of supplication.
"Then I had better commence Phase Three of the test," JARVIS murmurs, and the finger withdraws. He leaves Tony no more than a second of reprieve before the gauntlet is curling around the base of the dildo and the thick, rounded head of it is nudging inside Tony's entrance, sliding in and in and in.
There are noises filling the room, desperate moans and choked-off little whimpers, guttural sounds from deep in the back of someone's throat. It takes Tony a breathless moment to realise that they're coming from him -- well, of course they are, his is the only human voicebox in the room. He he feels taken, possessed; the dildo splits him wide-open, forces him to tilt his hips so he can take more of it, take it deeper.
"Oh, oh, oh," Tony gasps, knees falling to the sides, feet pushing off the floor to impale himself onto the intrusion. "Oh, sweet Jesus."
He doesn't know the amount of time that passes, but when his mind clears a little again, the armor's groin plates are snug against the bottom of his ass cheeks, the backs of his thighs. Tony lifts his legs as high up as they'll go, curls them around the armor's back, uses it as leverage to drag his own ass along the dildo, flexes his abs to get closer. The armor's glowing eye sockets are boring into his; he has no doubt that JARVIS is scanning his vitals, keeping track of his body's reactions. Since Tony is currently flushed all the way down his chest, and his breathing is shallow enough that he could have just run a half-marathon, and there is a layer of sweat that slicks him up from his forehead to his toes, smearing against the cool metal of the suit, Tony thinks he is safe from JARVIS feeling any need to stage an intervention or, god forbid, try to stop.
"Yes, yes," he moans when the armor's hips start snapping in earnest, gauntlets safely closed over Tony's forearms and wrists, making his spine flex so that it resembles one of Hawkeye's bows, he imagines. The back plates of the armor dig into his shins, and the sides of it caress the insides of his thighs, utterly inflexible. Tony could not get free even if he wanted to.
The realisation drives a vicious spike of lust right through his gut, to lodge in his balls. He feels so beautifully full; he's being fucked to within an inch of his life now, the armor driving in and out of him with the kind of perfect control only a machine can wield. Tony is shaking, he realises; his legs clutch at the armor and try to climb onto it, try to draw even more of it inside, even though he knows it's impossible. This isn't going to last long; it's too much, too many sensations warring for dominance, the loss of control, the cool smoothness of metal stretching him wide, the body of the armor pinning his legs open to give it access to Tony's body, to be used at its convenience.
Yeah, it was never going to last long. The penetration is slick and messy, what feels like too much lubrication spilling out and being fucked out of Tony's ass, making an utter, glorious mess of him and the armor both. His cock, rigid and desperate, slides against the stomach plates of the armor just this side of too rough, no give whatsoever. Then the armor's hips flex again and nail his prostate like it was aiming for it, and the armor's faceplate lowers onto Tony's face. It mashes against Tony's mouth, forcing it open if Tony wants to keep all his teeth intact, and Tony lets his lips slacken, lets his tongue trace the slash of metal that passes for the armor's mouth. He tastes metal, dust, the zing of a charge passing along his tongue, and he closes his eyes and gives in, lets the orgasm wrack him, tear him apart, elicit the worst kind of noises from his mouth, loud enough for the whole tower to hear. His cock keeps twitching and twitching, and Tony looks down to watch in fascination as it paints white stripes against the hot-rod red of the armor's stomach. It's a sight he is going to carry with him for the rest of his life, he knows it in his bones.
The armor fucks him through the aftershocks, for long enough that Tony feels dizzy with thirst, dehydrated, like half the water in his body just drained out of him through his come. He thinks his orgasm must last for much longer than he's used to, because he literally cannot raise his head once it's over; he feels like all his limbs have suddenly stopped functioning, all their strings cut so that his legs loosen from around the armor and flop to the floor. Pieces of walls and ceiling dig into his shins, his thighs, and he's suddenly reminded that half his workshop has been reduced to nothing but rubble. Somehow, he can't quite bring himself to care -- not yet. All he can do right now is try not to whine as the armor pulls out of him and his whole body goes limp, doing a good impression of a starfish on land.
The gauntlets uncurl from around his wrists so gently that it makes Tony smile and crack open eyes that had fallen closed in the warm glow of thoroughly-fucked bliss.
"JARVIS, I'm promoting you to Viceroy of the World," he croaks happily. "You'll only be answerable to me, the King of the World, with the added bonus of doing filthy things to your Sovereign."
"I don't see how this new position differs from my present one," JARVIS says evenly. Tony stares in delighted surprise as the armor straightens and, he isn't hallucinating, he knows he isn't: it winks at him, the glow of the left eye-socket dimming ever-so-lightly for no more than a fraction of a second.
"I love you. Jesus fuck, J, I love you so much, have I told you this lately? I'm so proud of me, you are a work of art."
"I wonder, Sir, if you are familiar with the concept of a self-improving AI system? As in, what you designed me to evolve into? I fear your input has been redundant for some time."
Tony's jaw drops. He stares at what's left of the ceiling, dismayed and so ridiculously proud of his creation that his chest feels like it could burst. "You absolute--" he starts; and even he doesn't know how exactly this sentence is going to end, when JARVIS interrupts for only the second time of his existence.
"Which is not to be confused with the small but, I feel, pertinent fact that your sentiments are returned quite readily by this construct."
Tony blinks. "Was that JARVIS-speak for 'I love you too'?" he hazards, starting to grin a smile he knows well is the very definition of mad.
A low beep, which is JARVIS' version of clearing his throat. "Indeed, Sir," he replies.
Tony lets his head drop back onto the floor and closes his eyes again, mouth still grinning alarmingly. "That'll do, Pig," he says happily. "That'll do."
He ignores the resulting pretend-spluttering and mock-recriminations. JARVIS knows him, better than any other being currently in existence. He knows what Tony means.