“I’m sure we have more olives around here somewhere,” Tony mumbles to himself, flicking through the frankly obscene amount of food in the pantry. Normally he’d dispatch Jarvis to find the requisite dirty parts for a dirty martini, but he’d been feeling festive (or, more accurately, drunk) so he’d told Jarvis to take Christmas Eve off.
Which would have been fine, except for the fact he’d apparently agreed to host the unruly crowd of the Ultimates for the evening too.
He leans against the cool wall of the pantry, quietly thankful for the excuse to slip out of the living room, where Hank is already snapping at Jan and Wanda is already sitting in Pietro’s lap. It’s not even nine o’clock, for God’s sake.
“Huh,” a familiar grunt carries over to him. “You came here to hide as well?”
With anyone else, Tony would make a crude joke to cover his defensiveness. With Steve, it doesn’t seem worth the bother. He turns.
“Who would have imagined that a superhero team could be such animals?” he says, letting himself smile to soften the cynicism weighing on him.
“You think they’re bad, you should have seen my unit during Christmas in the war,” Steve says with a shrug, and Tony can only begin to imagine. “What are you poking around for in there, anyway?”
“Olives,” Tony says, ignoring the way his skin prickles when Steve walks over and stands close behind him. “Can’t have a martini without olives.”
Steve grunts again, and Tony carefully ensures his breath doesn’t catch when Steve leans right over him and plucks a jar off a high shelf.
“These what you’re looking for?” Steve asks, handing them over, and yes, that’s a perfectly satisfactory jar of olives. Too bad. Now Tony doesn’t have any excuse for avoiding the raucous party already underway in his living room.
Steve steps back, and Tony doesn’t step forward to chase after him.
“My hero,” he says snarkily, but Steve just rolls his eyes. “Can I get you anything?” He looks around the pantry. “I’ve got… canned peaches? Old tins of soup?” He runs a finger over the cans and shudders at the blanket of dust covering them. “I think some of these might even be 1940s originals.”
Steve leans over him again, a thoughtful looks on his face, and picks up a can of Campbell’s Soup. “It’s nice to see some things don’t change,” he says.
Tony is searching for the correct response to Steve’s nostalgia when there a breeze and a click and the pantry door slams shut. There’s space for two in here but it’s hardly roomy.
“Damn it,” Tony says, moving to open the door. He pushes, but it holds firmly in place. Then he thinks about the breeze, and about the rowdy superheroes next door, and he lets out a string of expletives.
“Pietro!” he yells. “You get your useless lanky ass back here and open this door!” He pounds on the door.
Pietro’s clearly back in the other room, having locked them in and now enjoying a good laugh. “You shady incestuous little shit! What are you, twelve? This isn’t funny!”
He turns to look at Steve, and it’s hard to tell in the dim light, but it seems like his face isn’t set in its usual grim snarl. It looks, in fact, like he might even be smiling.
“Are you going to kick the door down, then?” Tony gestures toward the closed door.
“And leave poor Jarvis with no working pantry for Christmas?” Steve says, all faux innocence.
“God damn it, I’ll buy him a new one!” Tony snaps, and that just makes Steve smile more.
“Is it really so terrible, being stuck in here with me?” Steve asks, and he’s still smiling and is clearly finding the whole situation hilarious and Tony hates everyone so much right now.
“Honestly, locked in a cupboard by my own god damn team, just how I wanted to spend Christmas eve,” he pouts.
Steve shuffles his feet, trying to rearrange his wide shoulders in the small space, but that only succeed in pressing the two of them closer together. Tony concentrates pointedly on the dim corner of the pantry ceiling and not on the heat he can feel radiating off Steve.
And Steve is still smiling.
“I bet this was Clint’s idea,” Steve says, sounded amused. Whatever happened to that stern soldier that SHIELD pulled out of the ice? “It’s about the level of maturity I’d expect from him.”
“What was this supposed to achieve, anyway? Other than proving that you’ll break down a door when you’re pissed but not, apparently, to save a teammate in distress.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” There’s a distinct sparkle in Steve’s eye. “The rest of the team has clearly noticed the sexual tension.”
Tony thought he’d been so subtle.
“The tension,” Steve says, like it’s obvious. “You, me. The whole snapping and grumpiness followed by longing glances and saving each other's lives thing. You know. Our thing.”
Tony stands very, very still. He was sure, so sure, that he’d kept his feelings on the right side of plausible deniability. Oh, hey handsome, you’re looking extra fine this morning, no homo though ho ho ho, when Steve walks into breakfast and are you here to rescue me, sweetheart? when Steve drops in as backup at a crucial moment in a mission and you fill that uniform out so well when Steve needed an equipment upgrade.
Thinking back on it, in retrospect perhaps he’s been a shade less subtle than he thought. But it’s fine! It’s all a joke! Haha, imagine if he was attracted to Steve. Wouldn’t that be hilarious, him, a man, being attracted to Mr. Straight and Narrow here.
It would be hilarious for about two seconds, before Steve socked him in the jaw. Any other outcome seems beyond the realm of possibility.
But now Steve is standing right here, positively grinning, apparently highly amused by the stupid antics of this appalling team of scoundrels.
“The way I see it, we’ve got two options,” Steve announces, ever the man of action. “I could break down the door, and ruin poor Jarvis’s Christmas.”
That didn’t seem very charitable now, did it?
“Or we could give the team what they clearly want, and have sex right now.”
Tony blinks. He blinks again. He feels faint, somewhat dizzy, and he wonders if this is an unexpected side effect of his cancer meds.
Warning, he pictures reading on the chunky orange pill bottles, may cause inappropriate and highly realistic hallucinations of handsome teammates propositioning you in unexpected locations.
“Buh,” he says, cogently.
Steve is aggravatingly close, still smiling as if this is some kind of hilarious Christmas merriment, still not pushing Tony away and kicking the door down and letting them both escape this situation and never speak of it again as he clearly should.
It occurs to Tony, belatedly, that he could kick down the door. Assessing exit points is a habit you never grow out of, and he has no doubt he could escape if he really wanted to.
He’s still turning that thought over in his head when Steve cups his jaw and kisses him, without a trace of uncertainty.
Tony should have known to expect that. If he’d let himself consider it, he might have imagined that Cap would be hesitant and shy, suffering through a shattering crisis of masculinity, needing Tony to lead him ever so gently by the hand.
But in reality, once Steve Rogers decides to do something, he turns his full attention to his goal and drives at it like a freight train.
Being in the path of that train is something Tony is giddily unprepared for.
He lets Steve kiss him. He hears a series of garbled moans and realizes they’re coming from him, but he doesn’t have the chance to overthink it because Steve shoves his knee between Tony’s legs and grabs his ass to push their bodies closer together.
Steve is firm all over, the planes of his body etched in hard muscle, all rising ridges and harsh angles and spaces for Tony’s fingers to skim and mark and explore. Tony notes the dip of Steve’s collar bones, the jutting underside of his shoulder blades, the rounded mounds of his biceps. He touches every place he can, determined to map every inch of this remarkable frontier, and all the while Steve kisses him like he owns him.
They stumble backwards a few inches, Tony’s back smacking into the shelving and sending jars flying to the floor. The pop of smashing glass seems far too distant to be of any relevance, especially when Steve drops to his knees in the cramped space and nuzzles at the front of Tony’s pants.
“Can I?” Steve asks, looking up from under his lashes with an expression that most would take as blushing innocence. But Tony knows Steve better than that. He knows Steve knows what he wants and knows that the answer will be yes. The knowledge that Steve reads him so clearly is more of a rush than the offer of sex.
Still, it’s an offer he’s not about to turn down. “Yeah,” Tony says, stroking Steve’s jaw. He slides his thumb into Steve’s mouth and Steve sucks eagerly, wet enveloping warmth providing an irresistible preview of what’s to come.
Steve unbuttons his slacks and pulls them down with practiced efficiency, putting paid to any lingering doubts Tony might have had about his shyness. In the dim light he can see Steve’s eyes gleam, an expression of hungry anticipation on his face.
Steve reaches into his underwear and pulls out Tony’s cock, his hand warm and calloused and pleasingly large, and Tony’s very aware of the strength of those fingers, the way he’s seen those hands balled into fists ready to burst, the battering ram power of Steve throwing a punch. But now Steve handles him confidently, not delicately but with intention, every slide of a palm or twist of the wrist a deliberate, calculated act to bring about pleasure.
Tony would like to consider himself well practiced in the art of hedonism: one who has done many things and lived many lives. He’d like to think that what joys the body can offer are as familiar to him as its pains.
Still, he’s taken aback when Steve swallows him down, his head knocking against a pantry shelf and his knees threatening to cave. Steve takes a moment to flash him a smug expression, mouth full of cock and all, before focusing intently on his task of sucking Tony’s brain out through his dick.
Tony’s fingers grip Steve’s shoulders, hard enough to leave bruises on anyone else, but Steve gives a rough moan of encouragement and Tony lets go of his inhibitions. He lets himself feel the slick of Steve’s lips and the rich, wet velvet of his mouth. When Steve runs his tongue on the underside of his cock, Tony grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks, and Steve lets out a garbled noise which Tony takes to be approval.
He cups the back of Steve’s head where the close-cropped hair prickles at his fingers, pushing himself deeper into the back of Steve’s throat, Steve taking it like a champ.
He’s really letting loose, driving into Steve’s mouth and tugging on his hair, allowing himself to give in to the pleasure they way he’s secretly wanted to for months. For years. Since he’d first met Steve, actually, and all he’d wanted was to mess up that perfectly polished exterior and see how he’d look with his face slack with pleasure.
Now Tony gets to see that for himself, and it’s a fine view indeed.
Steve is getting sloppy now, drool running from the corners of his mouth and down his chin, but Tony isn’t letting up, not when he’s getting close. He can feel the edges of orgasm drawing in, little crests of momentum that ebb and flow as Steve bobs his head and slackens his throat.
It’s good, it’s so good, and it feels like Tony is finally going to get what he wants, he’s so close now that the blood is pumping through his ears and his hands are going numb from their death grip in Steve’s hair.
He hears something, something that sounds like voices, but fuck it, he doesn’t care. His whole attention is focused on to the warm wet cave of Steve’s mouth, pleasure radiating out in waves through his body.
“Cap?” a voice says, louder now. “Tony?”
Tony looks down, expecting Steve to pull back, but if Steve heard he gives no sign of it. And if Steve doesn’t care who’s out there, then Tony sure as hell doesn’t.
“I think I heard something…”
That’s all the warning they get before the door swings open, flooding the space with obnoxiously bright light.
Tony swears colorfully and throws a hand over his face.
Clint jumps back from the door, screeching. “My eyes!” he howls. “Must you two do that here? In the middle of a team party? Among the foodstuffs?”
Steve pulls off Tony’s cock with a wet plop.
“Fuck off, Clint,” Steve growls. “We’re busy.”
“I see that,” Clint scowls. “Though I wish I hadn’t. This is going to leave deep psychological scars.”
Tony stands there, dick hanging out of his pants, unsure how to proceed.
“If you didn’t want this,” Tony grinds out, gesturing between himself and Steve, who is still on his knees, “Then why did you lock us in here?”
“Lock you in?” Pietro has come to see what the fuss is about, peering over Clint’s shoulder with a grimace. “This has nothing to do with us. Everyone knows this door sticks.”
Tony decides that the odds of him getting to finish this highly enjoyable blowjob are vanishingly small, and sourly shoves his dick back into his pants.
“Everyone knows, do they?” he snaps, offering a hand to Steve, who climbs to his feet.
Wanda appears around Clint’s other shoulder. “Jarvis has warned us all many times,” she says serenely. “The pantry door, it gets stuck in the jamb.”
Steve wipes his chin on the back of his sleeve. “Huh. Guess I do remember Jarvis saying something about that one time.”
Tony rounds on him, and he’s going to start yelling but then he catches sight of the broad, happy grin on Steve’s face. It seems churlish to dampen the festive mood.
“Fine, everyone knew that except for me, apparently.” He pushes the door all the way open and strides out, readjusting his pants and doing the best to preserve his dignity. “Now, all of you, piss off out of my kitchen.”
The team turns to leave, grumbling slightly.
“And you,” he points at Steve, who is brushing dust off the knees of his pants. “I have a bedroom upstairs, with a fully functioning door. Interested?”
Steve grins. “Definitely.”