Stark leaned over the crib, staring down at his newborn son with a mixture of maternal pride, masculine shame, and a gnawing fatigue throughout his entire body. Sure, he loved the blobby little guy, who was finally sleeping after the last feed. Stark just wished he hadn’t been the one to have to push him out of his body. And he especially wished Pepper hadn’t filmed the entire labour.

It had been a year since Stark had made the mistake of promising his daughter a sibling with a wife already in the throes of menopause. Pepper’s baby-making days were unfortunately over. Yet, in the wake of The Snap and the catastrophic depopulating of earth, she too had leaped on the idea of them having more children, of doing their part rebuilding humanity.

'Whatever it takes to make the two women in my life happy', he’d thought.

It had been easier than Stark liked to admit to turn him into a woman. His suit nanites were accustomed to patching him back together after a fight, and needed only a little reprogramming, splicing their coding with that of the nanites of his wife’s suit, to rebuild his anatomy in the shape of a woman. Within the cocoon of his suit, his dick had melted away, the nanites hollowing out his abdomen into a fertile womb, sculpting his chest into milky breasts suited for nursing children.

A female shape perhaps, but still molded out of male cells. The Extremis virus had dealt with that. Salvaged from Aldrich Killian laboratory, it was the strain he had been injecting into the female soldiers, and it had quickly set to work ‘repairing’ the Y-chromosome of his cells, turning him into a true woman through-and-through, all the way down to his ovaries.

“There’s my babymaking machine,” Pepper cooed softly, stepping into the nursery.

“Could you not call me a machine?” Stark replied, his tone prickly. His emotions had been up and down since the delivery.

“Would you prefer ‘goddess’,” she teased, wrapping her arms around him, running her hands lovingly over the curve of his stomach.

She was in love with the way her husband looked like this - the pronounced curve of his back, the divine womanly swell of his abdomen and broad set of his childbearing hips. He was the picture of femininity. After the jokes he'd made at her expense during her pregnancy, she loved how thickset and jiggly his ass had become whenever he ventured out of the suit, so large he had to waddle to get anywhere.

“Look what you made,” she said, joining her husband in a quiet moment admiring the newborn. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. You did spectacular during the labour. And you look beautiful.”

“Pepper, please don’t,” Stark sniffed. “I’m still feeling… delicate.”

“Oh, it’s just the hormones. Every woman goes through it. You’ll adapt eventually,” she assured him. “Is that why you’re still wearing the armor?” she noted, stroking his curved steel-clad belly gently.

He’d worn the suit more and more as his pregnancy progressed - partly to sooth his feelings of helplessness as he softened and bloated, partly to conceal his burgeoning motherhood from his own male ego, though in the final trimester that had become impossible by the sheer size of him. “You’re still carrying some extra weight, hm?”

“It has only been three days,” Stark retorted defensively, his voice cracking with emotion. Did she really expect him to lose the baby weight overnight? He felt emotions getting the better of him, tears welling up behind the mask.

His eyes weren’t the only part of him leaking. The pneumatic pumps built into the chest plating of the suit had detected moisture from his lactating nipples, and kicked in automatically, clamping their rubber seals about his areolae as they began to suck with repetitive hisses and slurps. His face burned, the tighted in his chest easing a little as the milk spurted into the warmed, sterile glass canister at the front of the suit, between his breasts, easily detachable for when the baby needed to feed.

It had been years since he’d installed the breast pumps into the maternity armor, intended for Pepper’s use. She'd never used it, considering it humiliating, and he’d forgotten about it until now. He shuddered as his own invention milked him like a cow, trying to deny how good it felt.

“Oooh, you’re quite the milk factory,” Pepper admired as his liquid gurgled into the chest-mounted container, filling it to the brim.

… Machine… Factory… Pepper knew precisely the wrong words to say to make his lip quiver. He’d never felt so objectified. Ever since they stopped having sex, it was as though Pepper had ceased looking at him as a man and husband, and simply as a vessel, as her gestation tank for popping out cute, blubbering babies. At least it was over now.

"You've produced quite a handsome boy. But aren't you forgetting something," Pepper tittered, her voice coy. "You promised Morgan a sister."