authors note: Okay, so this fic came to me while writing about clint's daddy issues. Just Tony having a younger, hotter boyfriend who's also a super soldier. Which is great on paper, but when you get down and dirty, it makes Tony feel old. Like, sure, he still got it, but years have caught up to him and suddenly he's drained after just one round when before he could go up till three. So yeah, hope you guys enjoy the fic!
synopsis: Having a super soldier boyfriend wasn't an easy walk in the park. Sure, the perks outweigh the drawbacks, but when it comes down to having sex, it just highlights the wedge between them. Tony was pushing 50, and you, with the serum, were barely 30.
WARNING: 18+ SMUT AHEAD
The headboard slammed against the wall with a sharp crack. Tony's fingers scrabbled for purchase on your shoulders, his legs wrapped tightly around your waist as you thrust into him with a relentless, super soldier rhythm.
"Fuck," he choked out, his head thrown back against the pillows. The arc reactor cast a frantic, blue light across his heaving chest, highlighting the strain in his neck and the blissful agony on his face. "Slow down, you…you animal…"
You couldn't. Not when he was clenching around you so perfectly, not when his broken moans were the sweetest sound you'd ever heard. You were on your second round, and while your body was still humming with energy, his was already reaching its limit. You could feel it in the tremor of his thighs, the way his breath hitched in short, desperate pants.
"Almost there," you grunted, angling your hips just so, hitting that spot inside him that made him see stars. "Come on. Give me one more."
He cried out, a raw, ragged sound as his orgasm tore through him, his body arching off the bed. Cum painted his stomach, and the sight of him completely wrecked and lost in pleasure, was enough to push you over the edge. You buried your face in Tony's neck, groaning his name as you cummed inside him.
Tony lay motionless, chest rising and falling in a rapid, shallow rhythm. His eyes were closed, his face pale.
"Tony?" You reached out and brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead.
He didn't open his eyes. "I think…I think I saw the afterlife for a second there. It was surprisingly boring."
A small smile touched your lips. "You okay?"
"Peachy," he breathed, the word barely a whisper. "Just need a minute. Or a week. Definitely a week."
You watched him, your chest swelling with a fierce, protective love. He was so beautiful like this. Vulnerable, sated, and completely yours. But you also knew the look that was beginning to settle on his face.
You shifted onto your side, propping your head up on your hand. "Don't start."
One eye cracked open. "Start what? I'm not starting anything. I'm just decompressing. A man is allowed to decompress after being practically fucked into a new dimension."
"I can hear the gears turning from here. You're thinking about how you're in your fifties and I'm, well, this." You gestured vaguely to your own still perfect physique.
He finally opened both eyes and the vulnerability there made your heart ache. "Can you blame me? I feel like I've been hit by a truck. A very persistent, very well endowed truck. And you look like you could go for round three right now."
You leaned in, kissing him softly, a stark contrast to the raw intensity from moments before. "But I want you."
"You have me," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "But for how long? One day you're going to wake up and realize you're shacked up with a relic. An old man who can't even keep up with his boyfriends stamina."
You felt a surge of anger, not at him, but at the cruel voice in his head that told him these lies.
You moved then, shifting to hover over him. You framed his face with your hands, forcing him to look at you, to see the truth in your eyes.
"Listen to me, Tony Stark. I don't care about how long you last during sex. I don't care if we do it everyday or only once every month. You know why?"
He shook his head.
"Because I care about this. I care about you. Every laugh line, every gray hair, every scar. I want the man who built an arc reactor in a cave. I want the man who saved the world half a dozen times and still burns his pop tarts. I want Tony Stark. All of him."
You kissed him then, a deep kiss that wasn't about starting another round, but about reminding him exactly who he was to you.
When you finally pulled back, his eyes were shining. The self doubt had been replaced by awe or just the profound, overwhelming reality of being loved. "You're too much."
"Good," you growled, nipping at his jaw. "You deserve too much. You deserve everything."
You settled back beside him, pulling his body flush against yours. He was still trembling, overstimulated and exhausted, but he melted into your embrace. His head found its place on your chest, right over your heartbeat.
"Just give me a minute," he mumbled into your skin. "Or ten. Maybe twenty. And some Gatorade. And possibly a full IV drip."
You laughed. "Whatever you need old man."
Tony pinched your side, but there was no heat in it. "Watch it, supersoldier. Even if I'm older, I still know how to pack a punch." Silence befell the room, but when you thought he might have drifted off, he spoke so softly you almost missed it.
"I love you."
You held him tighter, pressing another kiss to the crown of his head. "I know, Tony. I love you, too."
Gave him the hair he deserves. (Aka what I thought he'd look like without his helmet as a kid and being mildly disappointed that he was bald although it did grow on me a bit.)
Summary: you keep walking into Tony without a shirt on. He's ever the amused one. [WC 1.3K] [Ao3]
Warnings: fluff, humor, a smidge of angst?
Shirtless Men Series
You should have knocked. In your defense—no one ever knocks in Avengers Tower. Not when Tony Stark owns half the building and FRIDAY opens doors like she’s reading your mind. “Tony?” you call, stepping into the lab.
The place is alive—humming, glowing, something sparking in the far corner.
“Little busy!” Tony’s voice shoots back, distracted. “If it’s Rogers, tell him I’m inventing a reason to ignore him.”
“It’s not—”
You round the corner. And stop. Tony is halfway out of the Iron Man suit, the chest plate peeled open like something cracked apart. No shirt. No warning. Just bare skin, arc reactor glowing through the center of his chest like a second heartbeat.
Your brain… completely stalls. Because yeah—you’ve seen him before. Missions, press, the occasional post-battle patch-up. But not like this. Not close. Not real. There’s grease along his ribs. A faint sheen of sweat across his shoulders. His hair’s a mess, pushed back like he’s been running his hands through it for hours.
“Don’t touch that—” he starts, turning slightly as you step in, “—panel unless you—”
He sees you. Pauses. There’s a flicker. Quick. Sharp. Calculating. And then—smug. “…Oh,” Tony says slowly. “Didn’t realize I had an audience.”
Your throat goes dry. “You could wear a shirt.”
He snorts, bracing a hand against the workbench as he yanks the gauntlet free with a metallic clang. “I could also stop building life-saving technology and take up knitting,” he says. “But here we are.”
You turn your face—try to turn your face—because looking feels like a mistake. Feels like something he’ll notice.
“You needed something?” he prompts.
You blink. Right. The mission. Words. Speaking. “Steve—uh—briefing. Ten minutes.”
Tony hums, like he’s only half-listening. But when you risk a glance back— He’s watching you. Not the door. Not the suit. You. “…I’ll be there,” he says.
You nod too fast and leave. You don’t notice the way he doesn’t reach for a shirt until long after you’re gone.
You can’t sleep. It happens sometimes—after missions, after adrenaline, after everything. The Tower feels too big, too quiet, like it’s holding its breath. So you wander. Kitchen. Hallway. Back again.
And then the common area. Dim lights. City stretching endlessly beyond the glass. And Tony. He’s on the couch. Shirtless again—because apparently that’s just a thing now—and tangled in a blanket he clearly didn’t mean to use properly.
One arm is thrown over his eyes. The other rests on his chest. Arc reactor dim. Soft. Steady.
For once, he’s not moving. No talking, no sarcastic comments throw out into the air. No talking. No quips. No constant motion like if he stops, something might catch up to him. He just looks…Tired.
You linger in the doorway. This feels wrong. Private. But then he shifts, brow tightening like even sleep doesn’t let him rest easy. And something in your chest pulls. You step closer. Carefully. Quietly.
The blanket is barely covering him. You reach down, gently pulling it up over his shoulders—
Your fingers brush his skin. Warm. Real.
Tony exhales, tension easing just slightly. “…FRIDAY,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, “remind me to—upgrade—security…”
You bite back a laugh. “Yeah,” you whisper. “That’s definitely the problem.” You turn to go.
“…You always sneak into people’s rooms at night?” he mumbles.
You freeze. Slowly look back.
His arm hasn’t moved. But there’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.
“You were asleep.”
“Mm,” he hums. “Convincing, wasn’t it?”
You cross your arms. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” Tony says, voice quieter now, not opening his eyes, “you stayed.”
Your breath catches. He doesn’t say anything else. Neither do you. But when you leave this time, You know. That wasn’t an accident.
The mission goes sideways. Not catastrophic. Not world-ending. Just messy enough that Tony takes a hit he shouldn’t have. By the time you’re back in the Tower, he’s already halfway to the lab, brushing off concern like it’s a habit.
“I’m fine,” he insists for the third time.
“You got slammed through a concrete wall.”
“Light exercise.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Adds character.”
You grab his arm before he can disappear again. “Tony.”
He stops. Looks at you. Really looks this time. Something flickers behind his usual expression—something quieter. Heavier. “…Lab,” he says finally.
You follow. This time, you don’t hesitate when the armor comes off. You help him. Piece by piece. Metal clatters to the floor. Systems power down. The world narrows to just the two of you and the steady glow in his chest.
And when the last of it falls away, there he is. Shirtless. Again. But this isn’t like before. There’s bruising along his ribs already. A shallow cut near his shoulder. You can see where the impact landed, where it hurt. Your hands are steadier than you expect as you reach for the med kit.
Tony watches you the whole time. No jokes. No deflection. Just… watching.
“You gonna keep staring,” you mutter, focusing on cleaning the cut, “or are you gonna pretend you’re not in pain?”
“I’m not—”
You press just slightly.
He winces. “…in that much pain,” he corrects.
You roll your eyes. But your touch softens. Careful. Gentle. Your fingers brush just under the arc reactor, avoiding the worst of the bruising—Tony goes still. Not tense. Not pulling away. Just… still.
“Funny,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“I’ve been injured before.”
You glance up. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“No,” he says, softer now. “I mean like this.”
You pause. “…And?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re the first one who makes it feel like I should stay still.”
Your heart stumbles. “That’s because if you move, I’m gonna make it worse.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. But he doesn’t look away. “Right,” Tony says. “That’s definitely it.”
Silence settles. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.
“You always this stubborn?” he asks after a moment.
“Only with people who need it.”
His expression shifts again. Something cracks open. Just a little. “…Stay,” he says. It’s not a joke. Not a deflection. Not Tony Stark, genius billionaire, hiding behind sarcasm. Just Tony. Asking.
Your chest tightens. “…Yeah,” you say softly. “I’ll stay.” And this time, You don’t look away.
You’re starting to notice a pattern. It takes you longer than it should. But still. Pattern. Late nights. Open doors. Strategic lack of shirts. Lingering looks. The way Tony always seems to be exactly where you are—like FRIDAY’s not the only one tracking movement in the Tower.
So this time, you test it. You walk into the lab without knocking. Again. “Tony?”
No answer. You step further in. And there he is. Back to you. Shirtless. Leaning over a workbench like he’s posing for a magazine shoot titled Genius at Work, Also Abs.
You don’t even hesitate this time. “…You’re doing this on purpose.”
He doesn’t turn around. “Doing what?”
“This.” You gesture vaguely. “The—lack of clothing. The—convenient timing. The—”
“Wow,” Tony interrupts, straightening slowly, finally turning to face you, “and here I thought you just kept accidentally walking in on me.”
You narrow your eyes. “You knew.”
He shrugs. “I suspected.”
“You—” you stop, recalibrating, “—you’re unbelievable.”
He’s close. Too close. Close enough that you can see the faint fading bruise from the mission. The steady glow in his chest. The way his expression has shifted—less teasing now. More… intent. “You could’ve told me to stop,” he says quietly.
“You could’ve worn a shirt.”
He smiles. Soft this time. Not smug. Not sharp. Just… him. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Your heart is pounding now, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it. “Tony—”
“Stay,” he says.
Not a question this time. Not hesitant. Certain. Like he already knows the answer. And maybe, That’s what gets you. Because he does know. You step closer. Close the distance.
