Tony Stark Simp Society

“Please come in here.” 

He was sweating, the grey of his t-shirt darker in some places from the effort of keeping his breathing normal. You’d never heard him so breathy, so unable to annunciate his words. He’d been hit by some gaseous toxin that Hydra had left to rot in their archives. Now, he was stuck in quarantine in an empty tower. He was truly a caged animal, the only thing blocking his aching bones from flinging his shaking frame at you being glass. Something that should be so breakable, but something that also bore the weight of wealth that the Avengers’ tower wore like a brand. It was the strongest kind, not something he could shatter easily. 

“You know I can’t, Tony.” You didn’t know the specifics of what he’d inhaled, only that the prototype file you’d found on it had a large label declaring it a contaminant. Said to avoid contact with the infected, and eventually it would be eliminated by the body naturally. “That stuff’s contagious.” It wouldn’t kill him, just push him far enough to make him wish it would. 

“It hurts.” You’re surprised he was even speaking with how rough his state appeared to be. He was sat back against the wall in what was essentially a desolate cell made to house subjects being observed. “Feels like I’m burning alive, please.” 

You’d been with Tony a while. You’d witnessed firsthand the many faces he wore, the kind of man he was in private. He was softer, caring, decent, not as quick to write you off like he did the others. He was never desperate. You hadn’t seen him beg, not this carnally. Like he needed you in there more than he needed the air he breathed. 

“It’ll run itself out.” You knew your words wouldn’t bring any comfort to him, but you said them anyway. “Just get through this part. It’s the worst of it.” 

His incubation period was reaching the point of visible tremors, the kind of anguish that shackles your movements, that pushed your shoulders into a slump. His eyes looked crazed, drained of their usual amber decadence and filled with licks of fire. You could see what he meant, could almost feel his heat on your own skin. You didn’t want to leave him like this, especially when everyone else had. The thought of him writhing around, alone and miserable for the whole night was gut-wrenching. You wouldn’t subject him to that. 

“I just-” His breaths were so quick and so shallow that you were scared he was going to walk his way into a panic attack. “I need you to come in here, sweetheart. I can make it so good, I swear.” 

You weren’t a particularly proud person. You had your share of selfish moments, times of need where you stooped to rather unfortunate lows, but you couldn’t go that far. It made you uncomfortably warm to listen to him like this, begging for you like you were somehow his ailment and his cure. Seeing him bargain was scarier than seeing him flailing. It was like watching a virus use his sentience to spread itself. It wasn’t just a plea he was offering, it was pleasure for you, too. Like the thing tormenting him was appealing to your human self-interest, like it knew you’d always fold for him. It was remarkable from a scientific view, less so as a loved one. 

You swallowed, thick and heavy, shaking your head to clean the smog off your thoughts. “You don’t know what you’re saying.” 

“I do.” He stood up, walking over to stand mere inches away from the window. Inches away from you. His onset mobility surprised you enough that you took a step back, feeling like he could pounce through the glass with how badly he wanted it. “I can be slow. Touch you the way you think I don’t know you like. Just-” He puts his hand on the wall between you two, his forehead falling on to it. It seemed like he was trying to push himself through it, like he could defy physics if it would just bring him closer to you. “Just come in here. Or let me out. Let me touch you, please.”

You stood firm in the slight distance you’d put between yourself and him. Aside from the parting of your lips, your poker face was holding strong. Much stronger than your will was at the current moment. Those words were molten, melting a bright streak of fire down your spine and into your lower stomach. It pooled like lava, like it was going to burn right through you if you didn’t let him extinguish it. “No.” He exhaled with exhaustion, with exertion. It sounded like you’d struck him, like you were keeping him from his whole life. “It’d only make it worse.” 

He stayed in that position for a few moments, letting the pain sizzle from inside his body to the outside of it. The hardly functioning logical part of his invaded brain was siding with you. It was dangerous, he could hurt you. He’d be putting you through the same shit he was going through. But, the worst part, was he didn’t care. Because he’d get to have you. Feel the warmth of your skin on his palms, the rhythm of your heart against his chest as he made it beat faster. He needed it.

His eyes drifted down to the hand-scanner hung proudly on the wall. It served as the only way in or out of the door, the access to the cell he was trapped in. He’d been so inebriated that he hadn’t even realized. “They didn’t take my clearance.” 

“Wait-” You’d barely registered what he was referring to until you followed his fixated stare down to the side. He opened the door before you had the chance to spit your words out. It wouldn’t have mattered. His course was set, and your futile attempts at hindering it would lack any significance to the sickness of his brain. 

You ran for the hallway, not out of fear per say, but out of necessity. If he laid a finger on you, that poison would seep from his veins straight into yours, and then you’d be powerless. He was barely three inches from you, though. As soon as he’d gotten that door open he was running for you. You’d hardly taken a step away when your body met the ground, his strength keeping you there. 

“I’m sorry.” Your wrists were clasped in his hands, the backs of them pressing into the shiny floor. “I know it’s selfish, I know. I just need you to help me.” The weight of his body added enough pressure to your hips to stop them from squirming, stop you from trying to inch away. You wouldn’t have, not anymore. You could feel it blooming within the recesses of your psyche. “I need you, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” 

Your eyes were welling up from the sheer intensity of the traveling illness. You were hyper-aware of each molecule your body possessed. Each one felt individually alight, like you were being flayed on a cellular level. “God- it burns.” You’d heard him loud and clear when he’d said it moments ago, but you had no idea how much he could mean it. It felt like your atoms were being pulled apart, like your DNA was being rewritten to need nothing but him. 

“I know it does.” He sounded so sickly sweet, quiet and cooing like you were something to be revered. “I’m gonna make it better.” His hands were worshipping, as though you were a statue needing to be polished. Like the finest bronze, the finest ivory. 

He freed your wrists in favor of yanking up your shirt. Your hands weakly grasped his, no intention sitting behind them. You didn’t want to stop them, but you felt like you should. Whatever he’d given to you was so potent that your blood was viscous with it, flooding through your systems and pushing out your nobility. Your sense. It was all fire, all charred and smoking remains of what had once been. He didn’t let the fleeting contact halt him. His shirt followed suit, the remainders of your dignity being stripped off as well somewhere in the haze. 

He tilted your head up, pushing his face into the open plane where your neck became collarbone. He laid his cheek there like you were holy grounds, his hands at your side like you were offering restitution. Like he was holding paradise in his own mortal grip. The contact was heavenly, the fritzing neurons in your head lighting up like a Christmas tree at the ambrosiac sensation. The pain of separation didn’t seem all that bad, not when the result was this. Just him touching you felt like a thousand little promises, easing any burden you’d ever had and tying you directly to him. He was so close, cradling you like he wanted to sink into you, to fuse his being to yours. 

“Please-” 

“I know.” He shushed you a bit, reaching down in between your pinned hips and his assailant ones, letting the head of him run through the pure need preening out of you. He was slow and striking as the two of you conjoined, just as he’d promised to be. It was relief like you’d never felt, matching noises leaking from both of your mouths. His lips were cracked as they met yours, feeling like every sin you’d ever need. He was oxygen, clean and crisp, so pure it burned your lungs to contain it. You felt a tear slide down the side of your face, a pearl of tangible ecstasy trickling down the sheen of skin. The kiss was barely broken, simply detaching in favor of resting on one another. The need to breathe was there, but it wasn’t respected, only begrudgingly obeyed. 

And then he moved.

Your back would have shot up if not for the sturdy anchor of his chest on yours. You’d never heard your voice so strung out, so full it was practically bursting at the seams. Your hands were tight on his shoulders, digging in like you could go beneath the skin, like he was your lifeline. He was in this moment. Here, he was all you’d ever needed. 

“I told you, honey. Told you I’d make it good.” It was proclaimed so softly under his heaving breath, like it was something special. Something only for you. “You feel that, don’t you?” He didn’t even sound all there, mouthing along your jaw and rambling like he couldn’t process his words before they left him. “Feel how deep I am?” He laid a hand flat on your stomach, smoothing his thumb over the soft of it. He dug his palm in gently, adding pressure on top of an already overwhelming stimulus. 

Your throat tightened, a guttural sob leaving the constricting passageway as your head bobbed up and down. A silent answer to his whispered question. 

“Want you to cum on me.” You could feel the devoted piston of his hips fracturing the sacred pace every couple of seconds, could tell he was getting close. “It’ll run itself out, right? Just let go.” 

The tainted callback to your earlier words soured your mouth, but you could barely recall saying them in the bliss you were submerged in. You were so close. His touch scorched you as it roamed the malleable flesh of your body. They were the exploratory, weathered hands of a devotee. He’d chosen you to be his alter, his sacred being. 

“Gonna cum in you.” Another tear glided from your eye down to the floor and you slung your head up and down, begging for the declaration as well as you could without words. “You want that? Wanna be full of me?” 

“Please-” He cut you off, forcing your jaw upwards and your mouth to his. He ate the rest of your plea, consuming all the noises falling out of you and giving you all of his. 

That unforgiving weightlessness pushed you straight off the edge, taking him toppling over it with you. It was unbearably euphoric, unsewing the seams of your sanity and melding it right to his. It felt like lava inside you, the most fulfilling kind of burdensome warmth. He stayed snug right where he was, not softening, not relenting. You’d curse the poison in his veins if you were conscious enough to do so, if the thought of going again didn’t make you so loopy. 

The others wouldn’t be back for days. You hoped to all hell that the shelf life for this thing was shorter than that.

He brags about you constantly. “She schedules my life with military precision.” “She shut down a hostile board member in five words.” “If I had half her focus, I’d be… well, still a genius, but a slightly better one.”

Tony tries so hard to impress you. Starts arriving to meetings on time (just for you). Tries to remember names on the call sheets (you notice). Once reprogrammed the coffee machine to say “good morning, [your name]” every time you walked in.

He lowkey panics when you don’t show up on time. “Is she sick? Did I overwork her? Did I say something wrong?” You had car trouble. He buys you a new car. You glare at him for three days. “Okay, okay. Loaner car. But it happens to be nice.”

Pepper knows. Rhodey knows. Happy definitely knows. They start placing bets on when you’ll finally give in.

You once laughed at something he said—really laughed—and he froze like he’d been electrocuted.

Eventually, he stops pretending it’s casual. One late night at the office, he walks in, sets down takeout, and says, “I know you’ve got standards, and I know I’m a mess. But I’m a mess who’s in love with you. So if you ever feel like taking a chance… I’m right here. With dumplings.”

He still flirts after that—but it’s gentler now. Real. “You make me want to show up better. Not for the company. For you.”

Tony’s in a high-level board meeting, surrounded by VPs, department heads, and some poor soul trying to convince him to care about budget allocations for Q4—you strike.

And he doesn’t see it coming.

You walk in like you belong there (which you do). File folder in hand, neutral expression. Professional.

Tony looks up, mid-sentence, and pauses. A flicker of suspicion flashes in his eyes.

You wink.

Oh no, his look says. Oh yes, yours replies.

You saunter past the table and drop something next to him, your tablet. Except, you make damn sure he gets an eyeful of your very strategically unbuttoned blouse in the process. Lace. Black. Intentional.

His jaw tics and the man clears his throat.

“As I was saying… we can double the projections by integrating the ArcNet processor—”

You place a hand on his shoulder. Innocent. Casual. Lightly trail your fingers down his chest while pointing to a chart on his screen.

“Mm. Fascinating. Maybe you should show them the spike in… performance.”

He coughs, visibly sweating now.

The room stares. Confused. Curious. Alarmed.

You lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“How’s your focus, Mr. Stark?”

He visibly short-circuits.

You know that smirk of his is a defense mechanism, but right now? That cocky armor is slipping.

You pull away and return to your chair across the table like nothing happened. Sit and cross your legs slowly.

He’s staring hard.

You mouth, “Say your numbers again, genius.”

He does. Kind of.

“So the… uh… processors can—can totally… function. Together. Processingly.”

You blink, mock-confused. “Processingly?”

He glares. You smile sweetly.

“Mr. Stark,” the CFO interjects, “are you alright?”

“Yup. Just re-evaluating… my data.”

The meeting ends in record time. Tony practically bolts up the moment it’s done, muttering something about “urgent lab work.”

But not before grabbing your hand and whispering,

“You’re a menace.”

“You started it this morning.”

“Oh, I’m finishing it. Meet me in the private elevator. Five minutes. Or don’t. But if you don’t… I’ll crash your next meeting naked.”

You go. Obviously.

And as the elevator doors close behind you, Tony pins you against the wall with a kiss that’s all payback and promise.

.

You don’t wait five minutes. You barely wait one.

The second those boardroom doors swing shut behind Tony, you’re on your feet, tablet abandoned, legs carrying you toward the private elevator with a heat you don’t bother hiding.

He’s in there already, leaning against the mirrored wall like sin incarnate in a three-piece suit, watching the floor numbers tick by like he’s counting down to detonation.

Then his eyes lock onto yours.

“Well, well, someone’s eager.”

You don’t respond. You just step in—and the moment the doors whisper shut, the temperature explodes.

You press the emergency stop. The soft whirr dies.

His gaze flickers to the red light, then back to you.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“And you’re stalling, Stark.”

You close the distance. Grab his tie. Yank.

It’s instant combustion.

His hands are on you—everywhere. The hem of your skirt is riding up, your back pressed to the mirror, his mouth devouring every soft, taunting noise you make like he’s starving and you’re the only thing on the menu.

“You wore this just to wreck me in the middle of a meeting?”

“What can I say? I like watching you squirm.”

“Yeah?” His voice is gravel and thunder. “Let’s see if you squirm louder.”

The next moments are a blur of breathy curses, sharp moans, and Tony Stark on his knees, mouth hot and wicked as sin between your thighs.

And the smirk he gives you as he looks up?

Lethal.

“You wanna distract me, sweetheart?”

“Too late. I’m already obsessed.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re gasping his name like it’s a prayer and a warning wrapped in silk. Until your knees tremble and your hand slams that mirrored wall behind you, just to stay upright.

.

After, still catching your breath, you murmur, “You gonna restart the elevator or just keep me hostage here?”

Tony straightens, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, tie completely ruined.

“Oh baby. I’m taking you straight to the penthouse.”

Ding.

You never touched the button.

“JARVIS?”

“I took the liberty, sir. You seem… occupied.”

You laugh.

But he’s smiling. And you know damn well this isn’t over.

.

The elevator opens straight into the penthouse. You don’t make it two steps before Tony’s hand is on your lower back, ushering you in like a gentleman. If said gentleman was seconds away from committing several indecent acts with zero regard for FDA food safety standards.

“I should’ve known you were trouble the day you walked into my life with that smug little smirk and those damn legs.”

“You kissed me in the first ten minutes.”

“I was weak. I am weak. Especially when you do that thing with your—okay, nope, we’re doing this.”

You’re laughing when he lifts you up, but it turns into a gasp as your back hits the cool marble countertop, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“What if I said I wanted dessert first?” you murmur, tugging on the open ends of his half-loosened tie.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, undoing the last buttons of your blouse like he’s opening a gift, “I am dessert.”

And he proves it.

Tony kisses like a man on a mission. Hands roaming. Mouth trailing hot open-mouthed kisses along your throat, your collarbone, your chest—pausing only to look up and smirk like a devil with a doctorate in pleasure.

He drops to his knees again. Right there on the kitchen floor.

“God, I love this view.”

He grips your thighs, tugs you forward until you’re barely perched on the edge of the counter, legs over his shoulders, and then he devours you like he’s starving all over again.

One hand braced behind you, the other tangled in his hair, you cry out—no one to hear but the skyline.

“Tony—”

“Say it again.”

“Tony—oh my—yes—”

“God, you’re perfect.”

“My perfect distraction.”

Your hips move with his rhythm, fast then slow, teasing then relentless—until you’re shaking and breathless and gasping words that sound an awful lot like “genius” and “god” in the same sentence.

And he eats it up. Literally.

When he finally rises, his face is smug, lips shiny, voice raspy.

“That’s one board meeting I won’t forget.”

“Next time,” you pant, barely coherent, “I’m dragging you under the table.”

“Next time?” he grins, hoisting you into his arms again.

“We’re not done with this counter.”

.

You barely catch your breath before he’s got you spun around.

Palms flat on the cool marble and heart racing.

You hear him behind you—belt unbuckling, zipper lowering—and then his hands are on your hips, warm and hungry, dragging your skirt up and your panties down with one smooth, sinful motion.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice pure smoke and static electricity, leaning in close enough for your skin to buzz.

“Wrecked already. Just from my mouth.”

He runs his fingers over your thighs, slow and reverent.

“Now I want to see what you sound like when I’m inside you.”

The first thrust knocks a moan out of you so loud it could crack the penthouse windows.

Your fingers scramble against the marble for purchase, knees weak, body singing.

And he doesn’t stop.

He drives into you, pace steady, deep, devastating.

One hand slides up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades to arch your back for him—his favorite view.

“You were built for this, weren’t you?” he groans into your ear.

“Built to take me. To be mine.”

“Tony—god—yes—”

“Say it again.”

“Yours. I’m yours.”

He growls, like something inside him snaps—hand fisting your hair gently, mouth hot on your neck.

“Fuck, that’s it. That’s my girl.”

Every thrust is faster now, messier, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the kitchen, echoing off steel and glass.

You feel his hand snake around your front—clever fingers working that perfect rhythm, double-teaming your pleasure like he’s rewriting your DNA.

You cry out. Loud. A sound he’ll chase for the rest of his damn life.

And he loses it right after—groaning into your shoulder, collapsing against your back as his climax hits him like a goddamn Stark Industries explosion.

You both stay there for a second—heaving breaths, post-coital aftershocks, your thighs trembling.

“You good?” he asks, voice rough velvet.

“Can’t feel my legs.”

“Excellent. Five stars. Would bang again.”

“This counter’s gonna sue us.”

“Pfft. I designed it. It’s honored.”

As he helps you to the barstool, hands gentle now, lips brushing your shoulder, he whispers,

“Next time, we try the lab table. For science.”

The penthouse is quiet. Stark Tower, usually alive with the whir of machines, late-night lab ramblings, and the occasional chaos of Avengers game night, feels… still. You step out of the elevator barefoot, silk robe loose around your frame, and stop short.

The lights are dimmed low, the floor flickering with warm candlelight—soft pools of gold arranged like constellations across the marble. Somewhere in the background, Sinatra’s voice croons from vintage speakers.

And from the kitchen… is that oregano you smelled?

“Are you…cooking?” You squint.

Tony leans against the counter, sleeves rolled up, apron askew, a dusting of flour clinging to his forearms and the air of a man who’s either caused or prevented disaster. His eyes meet yours, a small, lopsided smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. There’s something unguarded in them. Something real.

“Don’t look so surprised, wifey. I’ve been known to boil water without setting off any alarms.”

You raise an eyebrow, walking slowly toward him. “That’s not the same as cooking, Tony.”

He hands you a wine glass, the stem cool against your fingers. “Tonight’s menu - my mom’s lasagna. The one with béchamel and homemade sheets. The one you always ask for on bad days.”

You stop mid-sip. “Maria’s recipe?”

He nods. “Haven’t made it in years. Figured it was about time I stopped making excuses and started remembering what matters.

Your chest tightens, emotions rising quick and unfiltered. Lately, everything’s been moving too fast—meetings, upgrades, time zones. You’ve been right next to each other and still felt miles apart. But here he is, flour on his hands, making your comfort food from scratch.

“Tony…”

He steps closer. “Tonight isn’t about saving the world. It’s about you. Me. Us. Operation Spark.”

“You named it?” You giggled.

“Of course I named it. I’m me.” He brushes his knuckles along your jaw. “And I miss you. Even when you’re two feet away.”

You nod. “I miss you, too.”

When he kisses you, it’s slow. Not urgent or demanding. Just intentional. You curl your fingers into his shirt and breathe him in, black pepper, and a hint of burnt garlic, because of course he scorched the first batch.

He pulls back, barely, his voice a whisper. “Dance with me?”

There’s no music now, just the hum of the city and your heart starting to beat in rhythm again. He leads you to the cleared-out living room, barefoot on hardwood, one hand at your waist, the other laced with yours.

You sway. Slowly, like there’s nowhere else to be. His eyes stay locked on you the whole time, drinking you in like he’s memorizing something he’d forgotten he needed.

“I was scared,” you murmur against his chest. “That we were slipping.”

“We were,” he admits, soft and rough all at once. “But I’m not letting go. Not again.”

“Then don’t.” You tilt your face to his.

The next kiss is deeper. Hungrier. A promise and a plea. He pushes your robe off your shoulders, letting it slide to the floor like it’s sacred. You shiver, not from cold, but from the way his eyes darken, it’s pure reverence.

He guides you to the couch, his hands mapping familiar territory like it’s the first time again. Every kiss, every touch, is deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He worships. From the curve of your neck to the soft insides of your thighs, he relearns you, what makes you sigh, what makes you tremble, what makes your fingers clutch his hair and whisper his name like it’s the only one that’s ever mattered.

“You still sound like heaven when you fall apart, Mrs. Stark.” he murmurs, voice thick with want.

You pull him back up, mouths meeting in a collision of love and longing, and you lose yourself in the way he moves above you—sure, grounded, and all yours.

When it’s over, when you’re tangled together, flushed and breathless, limbs still shaking, he kisses your temple. The candles burn low around you, Sinatra long faded out, replaced by silence and soft breaths.

“I love you,” he says. Not for effect. Not to fill space. Just truth, laid bare.

You smile into his skin. “And I love you. Even when you burn the garlic and almost set the tower’s fire suppression system off.”

“Hey, that was part of the ambience.”

You laugh again, and it feels good. Like finding your way home after getting a little lost.

Outside, the city hums along. But inside, in the warmth of Tony’s arms, the spark isn’t just back. It’s burning bright.

Your husband was missing. Again.

And right after promising that he wouldn’t be late for movie night.

Movie nights. Something you had designated every once in a while complete with buttery popcorn and candy and lots of fluffy pillows and blankets.

Sighing, you finished your glass of wine while his lay untouched and made your way downstairs where he was probably killing his back over some invention.

As suspected, there he was, deep in conversation with his virtual best friend, FRIDAY. You hadn’t decided whether to let this go or go up to him and remind him of what he’d missed. It didn’t hurt you because you had lived with the man long enough to understand he never did it on purpose.

Curiosity had gotten the better of you when you squinted to see what he was up to, watching your husband scroll through pictures that resembled…sex toys?

“Let’s keep the face plate easily retractable too, the wife has a thing for neck kisses and so do I.”

Tony murmured, mostly to himself but he made amendments to the project in front of him, fingers gliding over the keyboard to put his words into actuality. He had lost track of time but only because it was directed towards a little present he had been working on, for you.

Unknown to him, you were standing back within earshot, watching him work with a mixture of shock and amusement on your face.

“I mean, I know Y/N loves coming on my fingers just as much. Maybe we could tweak the suit? Add additional modes on the vibrators too.”

Sure, boss.

Blush crept up your cheeks as his words fell on your ears, it was as if he was discussing any other modification to be done to his Iron Man suits. You tiptoed inside, not wanting to announce your presence just yet as Tony Stark - the successor of Stark Industries, genius inventor, world-renown superhero and philanthropist continued his back and forth with the AI.

You watched as prototypes holograms of his suit showed up, the alterations he spoke about highlighted along with detailed description of its features. The man ran his fingers through his hair, leaving them a glorious mess before walked around the table as if to get a whole 360 view.

Clearing your throat finally, you stifled a laugh as your husband jumped with a hand over his heart.

“Jesus Christ! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Chuckling, you wrapped your arms around the man and reached up to give him a soft kiss. He sighed and hugged you, rubbing your back gently.

“You know among the things I presumed you do down here, I never imagined I’d catch you doing this. I also didn’t realise we had branched out to Adults Toys R Us.” You giggled when Tony playfully slapped your butt, joining in your laughter.

“It was supposed to be a surprise and a silly little gift. For the countless dates I’ve missed, I’m sorry.” He stared at his feet, scratching the back of his neck almost nervously.

“So you’re making me an apology sex toy? You continue to amaze me, Mr. Stark.” You murmured, making him look up at you again before pressing your lips to his lightly.

The man truly was unbelievable.

“What did I miss?” He asked earnestly, guilt evidently reflecting in his brown eyes.

“Our movie night. But it’s okay, I won’t hold it against you. Especially not if promise to reveal what all of this is about.”

Chuckling lowly, Tony planted his head on your shoulder, letting out a tired sigh and a purr the moment your fingers ran through his hair, comforting him.

“Am I going to get a demo or what?” You turned towards his work station while still keeping your arms around him.

“Nope. It’s still a work in progress.” Tony shrugged, swiftly shutting down his work.

“Oh come on, Tony! At least tell me something about it, what does it look like, how do I use it—”

“Oh no, you’re not going to use it. I am.”

You frowned, coaxing him to continue, now that he’d really got your interest piqued. It wasn’t surprising that he would design something like this without involving an element of ‘him’ in it.

“You’re giving me a present that’s meant to be used by you? Hmm, I’m not so sure if I want it now..” you teased, welcoming Tony as he slotted himself between your legs, caging you in by placing both his arms on either side.

“Oh you want it, alright. I’ve made sure it’s everything you’d wished for and more.”

“Hmm.. I would like some more details before I decide how I feel about this present.” Your arms naturally found their way behind his neck, excitement already building deep within as your little banter continued.

“Well?”

“Let’s just say all of your suit kink prayers have been answered, Mrs. Stark.”