#tony stark x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

little-angel-oc · 3 days ago

Note

My heart 🥹🤧

Hello, I would like to request 19. A Second Chance with Tony, please 😊 this "someone important from their past" is the reader. They dated when they were young, but reader had to move, but they never stopped loving each other... now reader is back and they meet again, they talk about their lives and start to reconnect... Tony invites her to spend Christmas together and she accepts, and Tony prepares Christmas with everything she loves just to see her happy, in the end they kiss and spend the night together (I know you don't write smut, but you can add some spicy things) and the next morning they make their relationship official again, and this time forever ❤️

SECOND CHANCE

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.2k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said <3

ᯓ★ TW(s): some spicy scenes but nothing too descriptive

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The cold New York wind bites at your cheeks as you step out of the cab, pulling your scarf tighter around your neck. The city is alive with December’s usual frenzy—twinkling lights strung between lampposts, store windows crowded with holiday displays, and the steady hum of a thousand conversations weaving through the streets. It's beautiful, in a way, but the sight of it doesn’t fill you with the usual seasonal warmth. There’s an ache deep in your chest, one that no amount of bright lights or carolers can thaw.

It’s been years. Almost ten, to be exact, since you’ve stepped foot in New York. A decade away, and yet it still feels like the city breathes in sync with your heartbeat. You left when you were twenty-three, thinking you’d be gone only for a few months, maybe a year at most. Life, as it turns out, had other plans. Now you’re back, but the thought of being here again fills you with more nerves than nostalgia. It’s not the city itself that haunts you—it’s what, or rather who, you left behind.

Your suitcase wheels clatter against the pavement as you pull it toward the apartment you rented. The holidays have turned every corner into a whirlwind of red and green, gold and silver, but your mind is elsewhere. You can feel it creeping up on you like a shadow, the memory of Tony Stark’s face when you said goodbye.

“I’m coming back, you know,” you’d told him back then, the words as fragile as the tears streaking your cheeks. “It’s just for a while. I have to help my mom get settled. You understand, don’t you?”

He’d nodded, but his silence had been deafening. The weight of it sat between you as you hugged him goodbye, his arms tightening around you like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go too soon. And then you left, not knowing that “a while” would stretch into years, that the life you’d built with him would dissolve into memories.

You wonder if he’s the same person now, all these years later. If he still walks with that easy swagger, the cocky grin always threatening to crack his face in half. If he still talks like he’s three steps ahead of everyone else, like the world is his personal chessboard and he’s just having fun moving the pieces around. Or maybe he’s changed. Maybe the years have softened him, carved some of the arrogance out of his sharp edges. Or maybe he’s even sharper now, the weight of everything he's achieved since you left pressing harder on his shoulders.

You try not to think about it as you unpack, the simple routine of organizing your things grounding you for the first time all day. But no matter how many sweaters you fold, how many toiletries you arrange on the bathroom counter, you can’t shake the sense that this city, this moment, is leading you straight back to him.

It’s late afternoon when you decide to venture out again. Snow flurries are beginning to fall, dusting the sidewalks and piling up on window sills. You find yourself wandering without purpose, letting the city guide you. The streets feel familiar but different, like they’ve been rearranged slightly in your absence. You take it all in—the hum of the subway beneath your feet, the scent of roasted chestnuts wafting from a vendor’s cart, the laughter of children building snowmen in the park. It feels like home, and yet it doesn’t.

You’re not even sure how you end up at the Christmas market in Bryant Park. It’s bustling with holiday shoppers, the air thick with the scent of mulled wine and pine. You weave through the crowd, pausing now and then to admire the handmade ornaments or the glittering string lights overhead. It’s almost enough to distract you, but not quite.

You’re looking at a small booth selling intricate metalwork—ornaments shaped like snowflakes, reindeer, and stars—when you hear it. That voice. That unmistakable, sharp-edged, honey-smooth voice that’s haunted your dreams for years. Your heart stutters, and for a moment, you think you might have imagined it. But then you hear it again, clearer this time, cutting through the chatter around you.

You turn slowly, your breath catching in your throat. And there he is.

Tony Stark stands a few feet away, his hands tucked into the pockets of a sleek black coat, a scarf draped loosely around his neck. His hair is shorter than you remember, a touch of silver at the temples that wasn’t there before. But his eyes—their rich, whiskey-brown warmth—are exactly the same. They lock onto yours, widening slightly in surprise before something softer, something bittersweet, settles over his face.

“Y/N?” he says, his voice quieter now, like he’s not sure if you’re real. “Is that…?”

You nod, your throat too tight to form words. The noise of the market seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you standing there, caught in the gravity of a moment you both thought would never come.

He takes a step closer, his breath visible in the cold air. “I can’t believe it’s you,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I thought you were—God, how long has it been?”

“Ten years,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Almost.”

“Ten years,” he echoes, running a hand through his hair. “Wow. You look… you look good.”

“So do you,” you reply, and it’s not a lie. He does look good. Better than good. He looks like the kind of man who’s spent the last decade conquering the world, but there’s something else there too—something tired, maybe even lonely, that tugs at your heart.

The silence stretches between you, thick with everything you want to say but can’t. You don’t know where to start, don’t know how to condense ten years of absence into a single conversation. And then, as if sensing your hesitation, Tony speaks again.

“You’re back,” he says, his tone somewhere between a question and a statement.

You nod. “Just for a while. I’m… I’m not sure how long yet.”

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Well,” he says finally, “it’s good to see you. Really good.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “You too, Tony.”

Another pause, and then he clears his throat, glancing at the booth behind you. “Are you shopping for ornaments?” he asks, his voice lighter now, almost casual. “Because, uh, I should warn you—some of these vendors are scammers. I mean, who pays fifty bucks for a metal snowflake?”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound breaking the tension between you. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you say. “Just looking.”

“Well, in that case…” He steps closer, his gaze softening. “Maybe I could buy you a coffee? Catch up? I mean, unless you’ve got somewhere to be.”

You hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. Every rational part of you is screaming that this is a bad idea, that reopening this door will only lead to more heartache. But then you look at him—the way his eyes flicker with something like hope, the way he’s holding himself like he’s afraid you might disappear again—and you know you can’t say no.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Coffee sounds good.”

He smiles, a real, genuine smile that sends a warmth through you you haven’t felt in years. And just like that, you’re walking side by side through the snow-dusted streets, the weight of the past trailing behind you like a ghost.

The coffee shop is warm, its windows fogged from the contrast between the bitter cold outside and the cozy heat inside. The scent of roasted beans and cinnamon wafts through the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. Tony insists on paying for the drinks, brushing off your protests with a lopsided grin and a comment about “old-fashioned chivalry.”

You find a small table near the back, the kind meant for two people to sit close, elbows almost brushing. The mugs between you steam faintly, but neither of you seems in a hurry to drink. Instead, you’re both looking at each other, trying to reconcile the people you’ve become with the people you once were.

“So,” Tony begins, leaning back in his chair. His hands wrap around his mug, but he doesn’t lift it. “Ten years. I feel like I should’ve prepared a slideshow or something, highlight all my achievements since the last time we saw each other.”

You chuckle, the sound soft and a little shaky. “I think everyone already knows your highlights, Tony. I mean, you’re everywhere. Stark Tower, the Avengers, the headlines. It’s not exactly subtle.”

His grin tilts, more boyish now, and you see the flicker of the man you once knew beneath the billionaire persona. “Yeah, well. I’ve been busy. You know me—can’t sit still. But what about you? What’s been going on in Y/N-land? I feel like I should’ve hired a PI just to keep track.”

You roll your eyes, taking a small sip of your coffee to stall for a moment. “Nothing that exciting, honestly. I spent a lot of time moving around. Different cities, different jobs. I stayed in Chicago for a while, then Boston. My mom moved again, so I went back for a bit to help her. Life just… kept happening, I guess.”

“You always did like to keep moving,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost reflective. “But I thought you’d stay here. You said you’d be back.”

The words aren’t accusatory, but they hang between you like a ghost. You look down at your hands, tracing the edge of your mug with your finger. “I thought I would too. I didn’t plan for it to take so long. But every time I tried to come back, something else got in the way. And then so much time had passed, I didn’t know if it even mattered anymore.”

“It mattered,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. The intensity in his gaze makes your breath hitch, but he pulls back quickly, leaning on humor like a crutch. “I mean, you missed out on a hell of a ride. Turns out, saving the world is a full-time gig.”

You laugh lightly, grateful for the change in tone. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve been keeping busy, huh? Flying suits and alien invasions, not to mention the whole playboy billionaire thing. I’m surprised you even have time for coffee.”

“For you, I can make time,” he says without missing a beat, and there’s a flash of something mischievous in his grin that makes your heart do a little flip.

The conversation shifts after that, flowing more easily now that the initial awkwardness has passed. He tells you stories about the Avengers—ones that don’t make the news, the kind that leave you laughing so hard your sides hurt. You tell him about the small things he’s missed—your favorite city, the time you tried skydiving and almost chickened out, the stray cat you adopted and had to leave with your mom when you moved again. The minutes stretch into hours, the outside world disappearing as you fall into a rhythm that feels both new and achingly familiar.

Eventually, there’s a lull in the conversation, and Tony takes a sip of his now-cool coffee before setting the mug down. “So,” he says casually, though there’s a hint of tension in his voice. “Is there, uh… a guy in your life? Or a woman. Or anyone, really. Not that it’s any of my business, of course. Just… curious.”

The question catches you off guard, but the way he’s trying—and failing—to appear nonchalant is almost endearing. You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “No. There’s no one. I guess I’ve been too busy to really settle down.”

For a split second, you think you see relief flash across his face, but he hides it quickly, taking another sip of his coffee to cover his reaction. “Busy, huh? Yeah, I know the feeling. Sometimes it’s easier to focus on work than deal with all the… complications.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “What about you? Anyone special? Or is Tony Stark still the most eligible bachelor in New York?”

He chuckles, the sound low and a little self-deprecating. “No one special,” he admits, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Turns out, being a genius billionaire superhero doesn’t exactly make for a stable love life.”

“Shocking,” you tease, and he laughs again, the tension between you dissolving once more.

The two of you talk until the light outside begins to fade, the soft glow of the coffee shop’s string lights casting warm shadows over your faces. When you finally glance at the time, you’re surprised at how late it’s gotten.

“I should probably let you go,” you say reluctantly, though you don’t actually want to leave. “I’m sure you’ve got a million things to do.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing that can’t wait. But if you’re in a rush, I won’t keep you.”

You both stand, the air between you suddenly charged with an unspoken tension. As you reach for your coat, Tony clears his throat, his tone shifting to something lighter. “Hey, before you go… can I, uh, get your number?”

You raise an eyebrow, your lips twitching in amusement. “Are you serious?”

“What?” he says, feigning innocence. “It’s just… you know, for old times’ sake. In case I need to call and complain about overpriced Christmas ornaments or something.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you pull your phone from your bag. “Fine. Give me your phone.”

He hands it over with a grin, and you quickly type in your number before handing it back. He glances at the screen as if to make sure it’s real, then pockets the phone with a satisfied smirk.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice softening. “I’m glad we ran into each other.”

“Me too,” you admit, your cheeks warming despite the cold.

You step outside together, the air sharp and cold against your skin. Snow has started falling again, the flakes catching in the glow of the streetlights. For a moment, neither of you moves, the world around you quiet and still.

“Well,” you say finally, pulling your scarf tighter. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice filled with a quiet kind of hope. “I’ll see you around.”

And as you walk away, you can feel his eyes on you, the weight of his gaze lingering long after you’ve disappeared into the snowy night.

That evening, you’re lying in bed, bundled under layers of soft blankets as the city hums faintly outside your window. It’s a kind of stillness you haven’t felt in years—a quiet moment in a place that never really stops moving. Your phone is in your hand, the glow of the screen lighting up the dark room. You’re scrolling aimlessly, flipping through pictures of friends you haven’t seen in months, ads for holiday sales, and the occasional post about how magical Christmas in New York is.

Your thoughts drift back to the coffee shop, to Tony. The way his smile had felt like both a memory and something entirely new. You’d been nervous to see him again, worried that the years would’ve changed him into someone unrecognizable. But he was still Tony—sharp, witty, and magnetic in a way that made it impossible not to be drawn to him. And yet, there was something else there, too. A softness you didn’t expect.

You let out a sigh, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to process the strange, bittersweet day. Just as you’re about to set your phone down, it vibrates in your hand, the screen lighting up with a text from an unknown number. Your heart skips a beat as you unlock it, curiosity bubbling up.

Unknown Number Hey. Hope I didn’t screw this up already. It’s Tony, by the way. In case you know five other genius billionaire playboys who might randomly text you.

A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you type back quickly.

You Hey, Tony. Took you long enough to text. I was starting to think you just wanted my number for your contacts collection.

The response comes almost instantly.

Tony What can I say? I like to keep people guessing. Besides, had to wait until I was sure I wouldn’t come across as desperate. How’s your evening?

You pause for a moment, then reply.

You Quiet. Just scrolling through my phone and pretending I’m tired enough to sleep.

Tony Exciting stuff. Let me guess—scrolling through pictures of old friends and feeling nostalgic? Or online shopping?

You Wow, you know me too well.

Tony Well, I did spend a good portion of my youth trying to figure you out. Some of it must’ve stuck.

The words send a ripple of warmth through you, and for a moment, you just stare at the screen. It’s strange, this feeling of slipping back into a rhythm with him. Familiar and unsettling all at once.

You Okay, your turn. What’s your evening like? Saving the world? Inventing something mind-blowing?

Tony Tempting, but no. I’m sitting in the workshop pretending I’m working while Dum-E tries to build a snowman out of scrap metal.

You Dum-E? Your robot is into holiday crafts?

Tony He’s been into crafts ever since I taught him to use a glue gun. Worst mistake of my life. Anyway, speaking of holiday cheer…

The ellipsis hangs there for a moment, and you wait, your fingers hovering over the screen, wondering where this is going.

Tony What are you doing on Christmas?

Your brow furrows as you read the text. Christmas? You’re about to type something vague about not having plans when another message pops up.

Tony Before you say you’re busy or it’d be weird, hear me out. I’m having a party. Nothing too crazy—just some friends, a lot of food, good music. You should come.

Your first instinct is to hesitate. Spending Christmas with Tony? It sounds… complicated. And risky. Too much like stepping into a world you’ve worked hard to keep at arm’s length.

You I don’t know, Tony. It might be a little…

You don’t finish the sentence, but he seems to understand anyway. His next message comes fast, as if he’s already anticipated your reaction.

Tony Awkward? Intense? Weird? Yeah, maybe. But it’s not just the two of us. Lots of people. A proper party, I promise. Consider it a chance to mingle with people who probably have weirder lives than yours.

Your lips twitch into a smile despite yourself. You can almost hear his voice in the words, the playful tone that somehow manages to coax you into considering things you wouldn’t otherwise.

You Lots of people, huh? Not just a sneaky excuse to lure me into some one-on-one reunion?

Tony If I wanted one-on-one, I’d just invite you to dinner. But no, this is legit. There will be other people, music, fancy hors d’oeuvres, the works.

You stare at the screen, weighing your options. A part of you knows this is a bad idea—that being around Tony, especially during the holidays, could stir up feelings you’ve tried to bury for years. But another part of you—the part that remembers the way his eyes lit up when he saw you earlier—can’t help but want to say yes.

You Okay. I’ll come.

His reply is almost instant, and you can practically see the grin behind the words.

Tony Good choice. I promise it’ll be worth it. I’ll send you the details tomorrow.

For a moment, you don’t respond, letting the conversation linger there as you try to process what you’ve just agreed to. Then, finally, you type one last message.

You Goodnight, Tony.

Tony Night, Y/N. Sweet dreams.

You set your phone on the nightstand, your chest feeling oddly tight. The room is quiet again, but your thoughts are anything but. You roll onto your side, pulling the blankets closer as you stare at the faint glow of the city lights filtering through your curtains.

What have you gotten yourself into?

The next morning, you wake up to another text from Tony, this time with the details for the party. It’s set for Christmas at his penthouse—a place you’ve only seen in magazines and on television, its sleek, modern lines standing in sharp contrast to the traditional warmth of the holiday season.

For the rest of the day, you try not to think about it too much, but it’s impossible to push the thought of him out of your mind. Every time you catch sight of your phone, you half expect another message from him, something teasing or clever to remind you that he’s still there, waiting on the edge of your thoughts.

By the time evening rolls around, you’re already second-guessing your decision. But a part of you knows you won’t back out. Not now. Not after the way his voice sounded in that coffee shop, like seeing you again was something he didn’t even realize he’d been hoping for.

And maybe you’ve been hoping for it too.

The snow crunches faintly beneath your boots as you step out of the cab, pulling your coat tighter against the biting Christmas night air. Tony’s penthouse looms above you, a sleek, towering testament to his larger-than-life personality, its sharp edges softened by the glow of festive lights from the surrounding buildings. You clutch your purse in one hand, the other tightening around the strap of your coat as you take a deep breath.

You’ve spent hours deciding what to wear, second-guessing every choice. Eventually, you settled on a deep green dress that flows like water when you move, its simplicity understated yet elegant. It feels festive without being too much, but standing here now, you wonder if you’ve overdone it—or maybe underdone it. You remind yourself this is just a party. Nothing more, nothing less.

Yet your pulse quickens as you step inside the lobby and take the elevator up, the mirrored walls reflecting back the nervous anticipation in your eyes. When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, you’re greeted by a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the New York skyline, a breathtaking view that momentarily makes you forget where you are.

You cross the polished floor to the massive front door, hesitating for a second before knocking. The sound echoes faintly, and you clutch your coat tighter, waiting.

The door swings open a moment later, and there he is—Tony Stark, leaning casually against the frame, a glass of something amber in his hand and a soft, almost shy smile playing on his lips. He’s wearing a dark suit, tailored to perfection, with no tie and the top buttons of his shirt undone, giving him an air of effortless charm that feels so quintessentially him.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, stepping aside to let you in.

“Merry Christmas,” you reply, stepping over the threshold and glancing around. The penthouse is warm and inviting, filled with soft golden light and the faint sound of jazz playing somewhere in the background.

And empty.

Your steps falter as you realize there’s no hum of conversation, no laughter, no clinking glasses or distant chatter of guests. The space is completely silent, save for the music.

“Tony…” You turn back to him, narrowing your eyes. “Where is everyone?”

He looks at you for a moment, then shrugs, his smile turning slightly sheepish. “Okay, so, full disclosure: there’s no party.”

“What?” Your eyebrows shoot up, disbelief mingling with suspicion. “You said—”

“I know what I said.” He cuts you off gently, raising a hand. “But if I’d told you it was just going to be the two of us, you wouldn’t have come. And I wasn’t about to let that happen.”

You blink, trying to process his words, unsure whether to feel flattered or annoyed. “So you lied to me?”

“Technically, yes.” He winces, but his tone is light, almost teasing. “But can you really blame me? I mean, would you have said yes if I’d told you the truth?”

You open your mouth, ready to retort, but the answer dies in your throat because he’s right. You wouldn’t have said yes.

Instead, you sigh, slipping your coat off and handing it to him when he holds out his hand. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” His grin widens, and he gestures for you to follow him.

As you step further into the penthouse, your initial irritation begins to ebb, replaced by a quiet sense of wonder. The space is decorated beautifully, but not in a flashy, over-the-top way. There’s a massive Christmas tree near the windows, its branches adorned with delicate white lights and ornaments in muted gold and silver tones. A fire crackles in the sleek modern fireplace, filling the room with a cozy warmth. The scent of pine and something faintly sweet—maybe cinnamon—lingers in the air.

It’s not what you expected.

It’s… perfect.

“Wow,” you murmur, glancing around. “This is… not what I thought it would be.”

“Good or bad?” he asks, watching you carefully as he sets your coat on a nearby chair.

“Good,” you admit, your voice soft. “Really good.”

You walk toward the tree, letting your fingers brush lightly over the soft needles of the branches. It feels almost surreal, being here like this, the quiet intimacy of the space at odds with everything you know about Tony Stark.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he says, breaking the silence. “Because I may or may not have gone overboard with the food.”

You turn back to him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You? Overboard? Never.”

He laughs, gesturing for you to follow him into the dining area. The table is set for two, covered in a crisp white cloth and adorned with simple, elegant decorations—a few candles, a small vase of red and white flowers, and plates of food that look like they belong in a five-star restaurant.

“Tony…” You glance at him, your brows furrowing slightly. “Did you do all this?”

He shrugs, leaning against the edge of the table with that same boyish grin that used to drive you crazy. “Well, I had some help. But yeah. It’s Christmas, Y/N. I figured, if you’re going to spend it with me, I should at least make it special.”

There’s something in his tone, something unguarded, that makes your chest tighten. You glance around the room again, taking in the details—the understated decorations, the carefully chosen music, the food that looks suspiciously like some of your old favorites.

It hits you then.

This isn’t just a random attempt at holiday cheer. Everything about this night feels… familiar. Comfortable. Like he’s gone out of his way to make it something you’d like.

But you push the thought aside.

“Wow,” you say finally, sitting down at the table. “I’m impressed. You actually know how to do Christmas.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” He sits across from you, pouring a glass of wine and sliding it across the table. “I’m a man of many talents.”

The evening unfolds slowly, the tension between you easing with every passing moment. The food is incredible—some dishes you recognize from years ago, others entirely new—and the conversation flows easily, the years you spent apart slipping away like they were never there.

At some point, you stop caring about the fact that he lied to get you here. Instead, you let yourself enjoy the moment, the laughter, the way his eyes light up when he teases you about how much you’re enjoying the dessert.

It’s only later, when the plates are cleared and the fire has burned down to embers, that you realize how much the night has meant to you. Tony pours you another glass of wine and sits back, his expression softer now, his usual bravado dimmed by something quieter, something real.

“I’m glad you came,” he says, his voice low.

“So am I,” you admit, surprising yourself with the honesty of your words.

The fire in the penthouse burns low now, the soft glow casting flickering shadows on the walls. The two of you sit on the couch, side by side but not quite touching, a bottle of wine nearly empty on the coffee table. The jazz music from earlier has faded into silence, leaving only the occasional crackle of the fire and the quiet murmur of your voices.

You’ve been talking for hours—about everything and nothing. The way the city has changed since you left. The kind of tech he’s been working on. The new hobbies you’ve picked up, the old ones you’ve let slip. It’s easy, the rhythm of your conversation, the laughter and teasing slipping in naturally, like no time has passed. But as night falls, the mood shifts, turning softer, tinged with something neither of you is willing to name.

Tony leans back, one arm draped across the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing your shoulder. His gaze lingers on you, warm and thoughtful, and then he speaks, his voice quieter now, almost wistful.

“Do you remember that time we got caught in the rain?”

You blink, startled by the sudden shift in the conversation. “Caught in the rain?”

“Yeah.” He smiles faintly. “We’d gone to that outdoor concert—you wore that sundress, the one with the little flowers on it. You were so mad at me for dragging you out there in the first place.”

A laugh escapes you, unbidden. “That’s because you said it was going to be a ‘relaxing evening.’ You forgot to mention the part where we’d be standing in a muddy field with about a thousand drunk strangers.”

“Hey, it was a great concert,” he counters, feigning indignation. “But then the sky opened up, and it started pouring.”

You shake your head, the memory coming back to you in vivid flashes—the cold sting of the rain, the way the crowd scattered, the ridiculousness of it all. “I was so mad. I wanted to leave, but you—”

“—grabbed your hand and dragged you into the middle of it,” he finishes, a hint of mischief in his voice. “You were furious at first. But then you started laughing. Do you remember that?”

You do. You remember the way the rain plastered your hair to your face, the way Tony had spun you around in the mud, completely unbothered by the downpour. You remember the way he’d looked at you, his eyes full of something you couldn’t quite name then but you understand all too well now.

“I couldn’t help it,” you admit, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You were so ridiculous, dancing around like that.”

“I was trying to impress you,” he says, his voice light but his eyes serious. “Always trying to impress you.”

The weight of his words settles between you, and for a moment, the air feels heavier, charged with something unspoken. You glance down at your hands, your fingers toying with the stem of your wineglass, and then you look back at him.

“What about you?” you ask softly. “Do you ever think about it? About… us?”

“Are you kidding?” He leans forward now, his eyes locked on yours. “I think about it all the time. About you. About everything we had.”

His words hit you like a wave, and for a moment, you can’t speak. The vulnerability in his voice, the raw honesty, is almost too much.

“Tony…”

“I screwed it up,” he says, cutting you off gently. “I know I did. I let you walk away, and I’ve regretted it ever since. But God, Y/N, we were good together, weren’t we? Even when we were fighting, even when we were driving each other crazy—we were good.”

You nod, your throat tight. “We were.”

The silence stretches again, and then he laughs softly, the sound tinged with both fondness and sadness. “Do you remember that time we tried to cook dinner together?”

You laugh, the memory bursting out of you unbidden. “Oh God. The lasagna.”

“I still don’t know how we managed to set the fire alarm off three times,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, who burns noodles? Isn’t that supposed to be impossible?”

“It’s not impossible if you’re you,” you tease, and he grins, that boyish, heart-stopping grin that you’ve never quite been able to forget.

“Fair point,” he concedes. “But hey, it wasn’t a total disaster. We ended up eating cereal on the kitchen floor, and you still called it a ‘memorable evening.’”

“Because it was,” you say, your voice softer now. “Not because of the food, but because of you.”

The words hang there, heavy and unguarded, and you can see the way they hit him, the way his expression shifts, the teasing replaced by something deeper.

“And then there was that weekend in the cabin,” he says after a moment, his voice dropping lower. “Just the two of us. No distractions. No one else.”

Heat rises to your cheeks as the memory floods back—the way he’d looked at you that weekend, the way he’d touched you, the way you’d both let yourselves forget the rest of the world existed.

“Tony…” you begin, but your voice falters as his gaze locks onto yours, dark and searching.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Every damn day.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding as the distance between you seems to shrink without either of you moving. His hand brushes yours, tentative at first, and then firmer when you don’t pull away.

“I shouldn’t have let you go,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “I shouldn’t have let you leave.”

You shake your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It wasn’t your fault, Tony. We didn’t have a choice.”

“Maybe not then,” he says, his thumb stroking lightly over your knuckles. “But now… now, I don’t want to waste another second.”

Before you can respond, he leans in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s as desperate as it is tender. You freeze for a heartbeat, the shock of it coursing through you—and then you’re kissing him back, your hands tangling in his hair as you pour years of longing and unspoken words into that single moment.

The world falls away as the kiss deepens, his hands sliding up your arms to cup your face, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you might disappear. You shift, your body pressing against his as his fingers trail down your back, igniting sparks wherever they touch.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together as you cling to each other.

“Are you sure about this?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he says, his voice firm.

He stands, pulling you to your feet, and then he’s guiding you toward the bedroom, his hands never leaving yours. The door closes softly behind you, and then the night dissolves into a blur of heat and urgency and the kind of passion you thought you’d lost forever.

Tony is everywhere—his lips tracing a path down your neck, his hands exploring every inch of your skin, his voice low and breathless in your ear as he murmurs your name like a prayer. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel as he worships you with a fervor that makes your heart ache.

He takes his time, his touch reverent as if he’s memorizing you all over again, rediscovering the parts of you he thought he’d lost. And when he finally claims you, it’s like coming home—familiar and electric all at once, your bodies moving together in perfect sync.

The night stretches on, a tangle of limbs and whispered words and stolen kisses, until you’re both spent, lying tangled together in the soft glow of the city lights streaming through the window.

As you drift off to sleep in his arms, his hand resting over your heart, you can’t help but think that maybe, this is the start of something new. Something worth holding on to.

The first thing you feel when you wake up is warmth. Tony’s body is curled around yours, his arm draped over your waist, his chest rising and falling against your back in a slow, steady rhythm. The faint scent of his cologne lingers on the sheets, mixing with the hint of sleep-warmed skin. For a moment, you lie there with your eyes closed, letting the quiet contentment settle over you like a blanket.

When you shift slightly, his arm tightens around you, pulling you closer.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice low and raspy with sleep.

You smile, turning your head to glance back at him. “Morning.”

His eyes blink open, soft and warm in the morning light filtering through the windows. A lazy grin spreads across his face as he looks at you, his hair delightfully tousled and his expression free of his usual quick-witted guard.

“Sleep well?” he asks, his hand brushing the curve of your hip beneath the sheets.

“Better than I have in years,” you admit, your voice soft.

“Good.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering against your skin. “Because I plan to make sure you wake up like this every morning from now on.”

You laugh, a light, teasing sound. “Confident, are we?”

“Always,” he says, his grin widening as he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you.

The morning stretches lazily between you, filled with quiet laughter and gentle touches. His hand traces idle patterns along your back as he tells you about the ridiculous amount of effort he put into planning last night, and you tease him for going all out while secretly marveling at the thoughtfulness behind it all.

“You really thought wine and a Christmas tree would win me over?” you ask, arching an eyebrow.

He smirks, leaning down to nuzzle your neck. “It worked, didn’t it?”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe a little.”

His fingers brush your cheek, guiding your gaze back to his. “You’re impossible,” you say, your voice softening.

“And you love it,” he counters, his grin turning mischievous.

Before you can respond, he leans down and captures your lips in a kiss—slow and sweet, yet with a simmering heat that has your heart racing. You melt into him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair as he deepens the kiss, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

The world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you tangled together in the warmth of the morning light.

Much later, when the morning is well underway and the coffee you promised to make has been forgotten entirely, you find yourselves curled up on the couch again, his arm slung over your shoulders as you lean against him. The city hums faintly beyond the windows, but inside, the world feels still, as if time itself has paused just for the two of you.

It’s Tony who breaks the silence, his voice softer than usual. “So… last night. This morning.”

You glance up at him, your heart skipping a beat at the vulnerability in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want this to be just a one-night thing, Y/N. I don’t want to go back to pretending I don’t need you in my life. Because the truth is, I do. I always have.”

His words hit you like a wave, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your chest tightening with the weight of everything you’ve both left unsaid for so long.

“Tony…”

He shifts, turning to face you more fully. “I know it won’t be easy,” he says, his voice steady now. “We’ve both got our lives, our responsibilities. But I’m not letting anything—or anyone—get in the way this time. No moving, no excuses. Just us.”

Your throat tightens, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as his words sink in. “You mean that?”

“With everything I’ve got,” he says without hesitation.

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his as you search his face, looking for any hint of doubt. But there’s none. Only raw, unguarded honesty.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” you say, your voice trembling. “Not ever.”

“Then don’t,” he says simply, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Stay. Be with me. For real this time. No running. No hiding. Just us.”

The sheer simplicity of his words, the certainty behind them, leaves you breathless. You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek, and he reaches up to wipe it away, his touch impossibly gentle.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, one that lights up his entire expression. He pulls you into his arms, holding you close as if he’s afraid you might change your mind.

“You won’t regret this,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple.

“I know I won’t,” you reply, your voice muffled against his chest.

It’s sometime later, after more laughter and kisses and whispered promises, that the air between you shifts again, the playful teasing giving way to something deeper, something more urgent.

Tony’s fingers trail down your arm, his touch light as a feather but enough to send a shiver down your spine. He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that starts soft but quickly deepens, his hands finding their way to your waist as he pulls you into his lap.

“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and teasing, “I don’t think we ever properly celebrated our reunion.”

You laugh softly, your fingers tangling in his hair. “And what exactly do you suggest?”

He grins, that familiar spark of mischief in his eyes as his hands slide up your back. “Oh, I’ve got a few ideas.”

Before you can respond, he’s kissing you again, his lips moving with a fervor that leaves you breathless. The world narrows down to the feel of his hands on your skin, the way he pulls you closer as if he can’t get enough of you.

He stands, lifting you effortlessly as you wrap your legs around his waist, his lips never leaving yours as he carries you back toward the bedroom.

The morning gives way to a blur of heat and passion, of whispered words and tangled sheets and the kind of closeness you’ve both been craving for far too long. Tony is everywhere—his hands, his lips, the low, gravelly sound of your name on his tongue sending shivers through you.

When it’s over, you lie tangled together once more, the morning sun streaming through the windows as you catch your breath. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, and you can’t help but smile, your heart full in a way it hasn’t been in years.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm.

You glance up at him, your fingers brushing lightly over his cheek. “So did I.”

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes, letting the moment wash over you.

For the first time in years, you feel like you’ve found your way back home. And this time, you’re never letting go.

48 notes · View notes

little-angel-oc · 3 days ago

Note

I need this man in my life, right now 😩

omg could I please request 17- Holiday Baking Fiasco with Tony x Fem!Reader? We all know of Tony’s poor cooking skills (as exhibited by his burnt omelette 😭) so I think his determination to bake some Christmas cookies will lead to chaos and hilarity

CHRISTMAS COOKIES

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 3.6k

ᯓ★ Summary: Tony and Y/n have been in a happy relationship for five years now and live together in Tony's penthouse, so y/n knows that Tony can't cook at all and is shocked when he tells her that he wants to bake some Christmas cookies, he insists on doing it alone but since she doesn't want him to burn down the house she gets him to at least let her supervise.

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The warm glow of the morning sun spills through the sheer curtains, bathing Tony’s penthouse in a soft golden hue. The city below is alive with holiday cheer, but up here, it feels like the two of you are the only people in the world. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the open space as you pad into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

You find Tony already up, standing by the counter with a blueprint spread out in front of him. His hair is a delightful mess, sticking up in every direction like he’s been up for hours. Typical Tony. He’s dressed in red plaid pajama pants and a threadbare Black Sabbath tee that you’ve threatened to steal more times than you can count.

“Morning, genius,” you mumble, sliding your arms around his waist from behind. He leans back into your embrace, his body warm and familiar against yours.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he replies, his voice still husky from sleep. He turns his head to press a kiss to your temple before straightening up. There’s a glint in his eyes that you recognize—a dangerous mix of excitement and mischief.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” you ask, suspicious.

“Funny you should ask,” he says, turning around to face you fully. “I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s never a good sign,” you tease, earning a smirk from him.

“Very funny. No, but seriously, I was thinking we should do something festive today. You know, Christmas stuff.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. Tony Stark, Mr. Too-Cool-for-Traditions, wants to do something festive? “Okay,” you say slowly. “Like what? Watch a Christmas movie? Decorate the tree?”

He shakes his head, the smirk widening into a full-blown grin. “Cookies.”

“Cookies?” you repeat, the word sounding foreign coming from his mouth.

“Yeah. You know, sugar, flour, chocolate chips... cookies. I think it’s time I flexed my culinary muscles.”

You stare at him, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, you burst out laughing. “Tony, you don’t have culinary muscles. You have exactly one recipe in your repertoire: ramen noodles in a coffee mug.”

“Not true!” he protests, crossing his arms. “I made that omelet that one time.”

“You mean the one that set off the smoke alarm?”

“That was a fluke,” he says, waving you off. “Anyway, I’m serious about this. I want to bake Christmas cookies, and I want to do it myself.”

The idea of Tony Stark baking anything, let alone something as delicate as cookies, is both hilarious and terrifying. You can already picture the chaos: flour everywhere, batter stuck to the ceiling, and possibly a small fire.

“Tony,” you start gently, “I love you, but you have a... unique relationship with the kitchen. Maybe we should do this together?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the “p” for emphasis. “This is my thing. I’m doing this solo.”

You cross your arms, fixing him with a stern look. “You’re not burning down my kitchen on Christmas Day.”

“Our kitchen,” he corrects, grinning like he’s already won.

“Fine, our kitchen. Point is, I’m not letting you turn it into ground zero for a sugar explosion. I’ll supervise.”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Y/N, come on. Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

“It’s alive and well, which is why I’m trying to save Christmas by keeping you from setting the penthouse on fire.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no malice there. “Fine,” he relents, throwing his hands up in surrender. “You can supervise. But no interfering unless I specifically ask for help. Deal?”

“Deal,” you say, though you both know you’ll probably break that rule within five minutes.

Tony heads to the pantry, pulling out ingredients with more enthusiasm than precision. “Alright, let’s do this. Where’s the cookbook?”

You snort. “Cookbook? You?”

“Okay, fine, I Googled a recipe last night,” he admits, pulling out his phone.

You settle onto one of the barstools, sipping your coffee as you watch him dive headfirst into the world of baking. He’s like a kid in a candy store, his usual cool demeanor replaced with genuine excitement.

“So, what kind of cookies are we making?” you ask.

“Chocolate chip, obviously,” he says, dumping a bag of flour onto the counter.

“Classic. Good choice.”

Tony starts measuring out ingredients, his tongue poking out in concentration. It’s adorable, really, watching him fumble his way through something so ordinary. You can’t help but smile as he mutters to himself, double-checking the recipe on his phone.

Things go smoothly at first—too smoothly. He measures the flour, sugar, and baking soda without incident, and for a moment, you think maybe this won’t be the disaster you were expecting.

But then he tries to crack an egg.

“Dammit!” he exclaims as half the shell ends up in the mixing bowl.

You bite back a laugh. “Need help?”

“No,” he says stubbornly, fishing out the shell fragments with a spoon. “I’ve got this.”

You watch as he moves on to the butter, which he apparently forgot to let soften. He stabs at it with a knife, muttering curses under his breath.

“Tony,” you say, trying to keep a straight face, “you’re supposed to let the butter soften before you mix it.”

“Didn’t know I was signing up for a science experiment,” he grumbles, tossing the cold butter into the bowl anyway.

Despite the hiccups, he manages to get all the ingredients into the bowl. Then comes the mixing.

“Okay, here we go,” he says, grabbing the electric mixer.

“Careful—” you start, but it’s too late.

The moment he turns it on, a cloud of flour erupts from the bowl, coating both him and the counter in a fine white dust.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. Then Tony looks up at you, his face covered in flour, and you lose it.

Your laughter echoes through the kitchen as Tony tries—and fails—to look indignant. “Glad you’re enjoying this,” he says dryly, though you can see the corners of his mouth twitching.

“I’m sorry,” you manage between giggles. “You just—”

“Look ridiculous?” he finishes for you.

“Pretty much.”

He grabs a handful of flour and flings it at you, catching you square in the chest.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that,” you say, grabbing your own handful of flour.

The next thing you know, the kitchen has turned into a full-blown flour fight.

The flour fight ends with both of you sitting on the kitchen floor, laughing so hard your sides ache. Tony looks completely disheveled, his hair white with powder, his grin boyish and infectious. You’re sure you don’t look much better.

“I think,” Tony says between chuckles, “this is the part where I’d make a robot clean everything. Except today is supposed to be authentic, right?” He gestures dramatically, like that word alone explains the chaos he’s caused.

“Oh, authentic, huh?” you reply, brushing flour off your face. “Well, in authentic kitchens, people clean up their messes before they burn their cookies.”

Tony groans, tilting his head back like he’s considering giving up entirely. “Fine. Let’s clean. But for the record, that flour cloud? Totally added character to the kitchen.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway, standing up and grabbing a towel. “Come on, Mr. Authentic. Let’s see how good you are with a sponge.”

Together, you set about tidying the mess. It’s... slow. Tony keeps getting distracted, like when he tries to use the flour-dusted mixing spoon as a microphone to belt out a horribly off-key rendition of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Or when he attempts to juggle the eggs and nearly drops all of them.

“Tony,” you warn, snatching the eggs from his hands, “focus. Or so help me, I’ll ban you from this kitchen for life.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s banned me from a lab,” he quips, but he grabs a dishcloth and starts wiping the counter.

It’s messy, chaotic, and far from efficient, but eventually, the kitchen is somewhat recognizable again. You tie the trash bag closed with a satisfied huff and glance at Tony, who’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a smudge of flour still on his cheek.

“Well,” you say, smirking, “I think that’s the closest you’ve ever come to doing housework.”

“I’d be offended if that wasn’t completely accurate,” he shoots back.

You laugh, but your amusement fades as you watch him glance at the bowl of half-mixed dough on the counter. His shoulders slump just slightly, his earlier bravado dimming.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, stepping closer.

He hesitates, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, I admit it. This whole baking thing... it’s harder than it looks.”

“Oh, really? I never would’ve guessed,” you tease lightly, nudging him with your elbow.

“Hey, cut me some slack. I’m a genius in most areas, but apparently, cookie dough is my kryptonite.” He sighs, turning to you with a sheepish smile. “I think I need a co-pilot. Someone to, you know, steer me away from the iceberg before I sink the whole ship.”

You arch an eyebrow. “So, you’re asking for my help?”

“I’m delegating,” he says quickly, holding up a finger. “There’s a difference. You’re not taking over; you’re just... preventing further disasters.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, crossing your arms. “And how many disasters are we talking here?”

“None. Zero. Zilch. I’ve got this,” he insists, but the look in his eyes is pleading.

You sigh, shaking your head. “Fine. But you still have to do most of the work. I’m just here to stop you from burning down the penthouse. Deal?”

“Deal.”

With your roles established, the two of you return to the mixing bowl. Tony picks up the electric mixer with exaggerated caution, holding it like it’s a live grenade.

“Okay,” you say, guiding him, “start slow. Just enough to combine the butter and sugar.”

He flips the switch, and for once, the mixer behaves. The butter and sugar begin to cream together, and Tony flashes you a triumphant grin.

“Look at that! I’m a natural,” he says smugly.

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn, though you can’t help but smile.

The next step is adding the eggs, and you’re extra vigilant this time. “Crack them into a separate bowl first,” you instruct, handing him a small bowl.

“Why? Afraid I’ll mess up again?” he asks, but he does as you say.

“Not afraid. Just prepared.”

The first egg cracks cleanly, and Tony gives you a mock bow. “See? No shell this time. I’m a changed man.”

“Congratulations. Now do it again.”

He rolls his eyes but complies, and soon the eggs are safely added to the dough. As the mixer whirs away, you glance at Tony, who’s watching the process with the same intensity he reserves for tinkering in his lab.

“You’re really taking this seriously, huh?” you say, leaning against the counter.

“Of course. It’s Christmas, and I wanted to do something special for you,” he says, his tone softer than usual.

Your heart warms at his words. “Tony...”

“Don’t get all mushy on me,” he interrupts, though his ears are turning red.

You laugh, but there’s a lump in your throat. Moments like these—where Tony lets his guard down and shows just how much he cares—are rare and precious.

“Alright, next step,” you say, clearing your throat to keep the emotion at bay. “Time for the dry ingredients.”

Tony grabs the bag of flour with newfound confidence, measuring it out carefully under your watchful eye.

“Not bad,” you say as he levels off the measuring cup.

“Not bad?” he repeats, feigning insult. “This is perfect. I deserve a medal for this level of precision.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Stark,” you reply, smirking.

Once the dry ingredients are added, it’s time to mix again. This time, the dough starts to come together, and Tony looks genuinely impressed with himself.

“Okay, I admit it,” he says, holding up a spoonful of dough. “This actually looks like cookie dough.”

“That’s because it is cookie dough,” you say with a laugh.

He tastes a bit, his eyes widening. “And it’s good! Damn, I might actually pull this off.”

“Don’t celebrate yet,” you warn, though you’re smiling.

The final step is adding the chocolate chips, and Tony insists on doing it by hand. He pours the chips into the bowl with dramatic flair, tossing in a few extra for good measure.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together. “What’s next?”

“We chill the dough,” you reply, grabbing some plastic wrap.

“Chill it?”

“Yes, Tony. You can’t just bake it right away. The butter needs time to firm up, or the cookies will spread too much in the oven.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Why didn’t anyone tell me baking was this complicated?”

“You’re the one who wanted to do this solo,” you remind him, wrapping the dough and placing it in the fridge.

Tony sighs dramatically, leaning against the counter like he’s just run a marathon. “Fine. We chill the dough. But I’m taking a break. This baking stuff is exhausting.”

You chuckle, pulling him toward the living room. “Come on, Mr. Authentic. Let’s take a breather before round two.”

Settling onto the couch, Tony flops down beside you, his head resting on your shoulder. His earlier frustration has faded, replaced with that easy grin you know so well.

“So,” he says, looking up at you, “how am I doing so far?”

“Honestly? Not bad. You’re no Julia Child, but you’re better than I expected.”

He laughs. “High praise coming from you.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you reply, nudging him playfully.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the snow fall outside the massive windows. The city below sparkles with holiday lights, and for a moment, everything feels perfect.

Tony breaks the silence, his voice soft. “Thanks for helping me. I know I’m a disaster in the kitchen, but... it means a lot.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You’re not a disaster. You’re just... a work in progress.”

“Gee, thanks,” he says, but there’s no bite in his words.

As the dough chills and the snow falls, you realize this might just be the best Christmas yet.

The dough chills long enough for Tony to grumble approximately twelve times. By the eighth complaint, you’re certain he’s just doing it to amuse himself. He’s sprawled across the couch like a man overcome by tragedy, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes.

“It’s been a year,” he moans.

You glance at your phone’s clock and laugh. “It’s been thirty-five minutes.”

“Exactly! Thirty-five minutes I’ll never get back. Do you know how many upgrades I could have made to the suit in that time? I could’ve redesigned an entire energy matrix!”

“Could you have made cookies?” you counter, smirking as you throw a pillow at him.

He catches it with ease, his reflexes as sharp as ever. “You’re mocking me, but when these cookies win a Nobel Prize for excellence in baking, I’ll remember this moment.”

“They’ll definitely give you a prize for patience,” you tease, motioning for him to get up. “Come on, it’s time.”

Tony perks up immediately, springing off the couch. “Finally! Let’s do this.”

Back in the kitchen, the dough feels firm and perfect beneath your fingers as you peel away the plastic wrap. Tony, on the other hand, is holding the baking sheet like it might explode in his hands.

“Uh, where do these live?” he asks, staring blankly at the cabinets.

“You’ve lived here for years, and you don’t know where the baking sheets are?” you say, crossing your arms.

“In my defense, I don’t bake. It’s not part of the Stark repertoire.”

You sigh, walk over, and pull the baking sheet from its drawer. Tony grins sheepishly, following you back to the counter.

The two of you start rolling the dough into balls, but Tony’s creations look less like cookies and more like abstract sculptures. Some are tiny, others are enormous. One is oddly triangular.

“Tony,” you say, biting back a laugh, “these cookies need to be the same size, or they’ll bake unevenly.”

“I’m going for a rustic vibe,” he says, holding up a lumpy dough ball with pride.

“Rustic or not, you’re about to have cookies baked on one side and raw on the other.”

“Fair point,” he says, flattening one of the larger blobs. “So, what’s the secret to the perfect cookie shape, Cookie Master?”

You smirk at the nickname. “Here, let me show you.”

Standing beside him, you reach for his hands and guide them, shaping the dough into a neat, even ball. His hands are warm beneath yours, and you can feel his eyes on you as you work.

“Hmm,” he murmurs.

“Hmm, what?” you ask, glancing up.

“Just wondering how much longer I can milk this helpless baker act before you realize I just wanted to get you this close.”

You roll your eyes, though your cheeks warm. “Tony Stark, are you flirting with me while rolling cookie dough?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

You try to keep a straight face, but his mischievous grin is infectious. “Less flirting, more rolling,” you say, though your tone is teasing.

Eventually, the cookies are prepped, and you watch as Tony carefully places them on the parchment-lined baking sheet. It’s almost endearing how focused he is, his tongue poking out slightly as he spaces each cookie with the precision of an engineer.

“Perfect,” he announces, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

“They actually look decent,” you admit.

“Decent?” He clutches his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, darling. These are works of art.”

“Alright, Michelangelo, put them in the oven before you throw out your back patting yourself.”

Tony slides the sheet into the preheated oven with surprising care, setting the timer with exaggerated flair.

“And now,” he says, turning to you with a triumphant smirk, “we wait. Again.”

“At least this time it’s only ten minutes,” you say, leaning against the counter.

“Ten minutes is still too long,” he replies, stepping closer. “You know what I think we should do while we wait?”

“What’s that?” you ask, arching an eyebrow.

He leans down, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “I think we should make better use of this kitchen.”

Your breath catches as his hands find your hips, pulling you flush against him. His voice is low and teasing, his breath warm against your skin.

“Tony,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, “the cookies—”

“Are on a timer,” he interrupts, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth. “We’ve got time.”

Before you can argue, his mouth claims yours in a kiss that’s slow and deliberate, the kind that makes your knees weak and your heart race. His hands slide up your sides, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that makes you forget everything else.

“Tony,” you murmur against his lips, your hands tangling in his hair.

“Hmm?” he hums, his lips trailing down to your jawline.

“I’m serious. If the cookies burn, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

He pulls back just enough to smirk at you, his eyes dark with mischief. “Fair point. But I’m holding you to this after they’re done.”

You laugh, breathless and flustered as you gently push him away. “Fine. Go sit down before you start something we can’t finish.”

Tony sighs dramatically but obliges, dropping onto a barstool with a grin that promises he’s not done with you yet.

When the timer dings, Tony jumps up like a kid on Christmas morning, practically shoving you aside to pull the baking sheet from the oven.

“Careful! They’re hot,” you warn as he sets the tray on the counter.

He grabs a spatula to transfer the cookies to a cooling rack, his excitement contagious. “Look at these beauties,” he says, holding one up. “Golden brown. Perfectly round. It’s almost like I’m a natural.”

You laugh, nudging him playfully. “Let’s not get carried away.”

He bites into the cookie, his eyes widening. “Holy... These are amazing.”

You take a bite of your own, and the buttery, chocolatey goodness makes you hum in approval. “Okay, I’ll admit it. You did good.”

“Did good?” he repeats, feigning offense. “These cookies are a masterpiece. They should be in a museum.”

“They should be in your stomach,” you reply, grabbing another cookie.

The two of you sit at the counter, eating cookies straight off the cooling rack and laughing as you recount the day’s disasters.

“You know,” Tony says between bites, “this might be my best Christmas yet.”

“Better than the Christmas you bought yourself a private island?”

“Way better,” he says, his tone softening.

He reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Thanks for putting up with me today. I know I can be a pain.”

You smile, leaning closer. “You’re not a pain. You’re just... a lot. But I like that about you.”

He grins, leaning in until his lips are just a breath away from yours. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

Later that night, as the kitchen quiets and the city sparkles with holiday lights outside, you find yourself back in Tony’s arms. The cookies are long forgotten, replaced by soft kisses and whispered promises.

“Next year,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, “we’re making a gingerbread house.”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “As long as you don’t burn it down.”

“Deal,” he replies, pulling you closer as the snow falls softly outside.

And in that moment, with his arms around you and the taste of chocolate still lingering, you know it’s the perfect Christmas.

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