On The First Day of Christmas
“My true love gave to me three French hens, two turtle doves, and a pair of lacy red assless panties?! I don’t think so, Tony!”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Tony said hastily, running after Pepper out in the hall. Steve and the others weren’t exactly trying to listen, but it was no challenge. “Indoor voice, Pep.”
“This is my indoor voice!” Pepper yelled. “You wanna take this outside?”
“Phew…” Clint wiggled his finger against his hearing aid.
“Duly noted. Look, all I wanted-“
“I mean, do you really think this in any way makes up for anything?”
“I wasn’t trying to-“
“Right, right. Of course you weren’t,” she interrupted him. “You were just trying to buy it all away with a cheap joke again, weren’t you, Tony?”
“I guess I just thought you might like them,” Tony snapped.
Steve could feel Pepper’s cold stare right through the wall. He was well accustomed to ice.
“And why would you think that?”
“Well.” Tony was floundering now. Steve wasn’t sure where to look, and he couldn’t even see them. “I like them.”
“Oh yeah? Well if you like them so much, why don’t you wear them yourself?”
There was a sound, which, without context, Steve would never have placed as ‘Iron Man getting hit in the face with a pair of panties’, but that was what it must have been.
Steve ran a thumb around his neck, easing the collar away from his skin. That was not the sort of mental image he needed in a room full of people.
He might have forgotten about it, if things has just moved on after that.
Probably not, though. It was Tony. Tony in sexy underwear.
Steve wasn’t exactly out, per se, but he was out enough in his mind; and he’d long since admitted to himself that that butt was the closest he’d come to impure thoughts.
God help him.
On The Second Day of Christmas
He was in the elevator to the top floor with Pepper. She had a meeting; he had some Christmas boxes to wrap for the children’s hospital.
Then the doors opened, and they both had an eyeful of iron ass.
There were at least five posters up - cheap, copy paper affairs, but still blatant even from a distance. They flanked the hallway, but the most prominent was up on a notice board right at the end.
Funny, Steve thought, in a brief out-of-body experience. I always wondered why Tony had anything old-tech around here. Guess it was just to showcase himself naked.
Pepper covered her mouth with her hands.
The posters were portrait, the photo bordered by the blank edges of the paper, and Tony was kneeling on a bed, facing away from the camera with his head turned towards it, one fingertip in his mouth, and the black Arial caption read “Do you like them better now?”
Oh, and he was wearing panties.
Rich, red, lacy panties, to be specific, which were definitely more decorative than functional. Unless said function were to spank him until he matched that shade of Iron Man red, with a color chart right to hand: the back was simply a large, heart-shaped hole in the material which left most of his ass exposed.
Then there were the suspenders, also red, leading down to sheer black stockings. A relatively simple affair - one slim black band around the top of each, backed with a red and gold bow at the top of each thigh.
And nothing else.
Steve definitely couldn’t reign in the fact his face was lingerie red, but at least that was a somewhat predictable reaction.
Look away, he panicked inside his mind. Look away before you stain your pants, idiot.
He looked sideways at Pepper.
At least she had both hands over her face, so hopefully hadn’t seen Steve’s eyes roll right out of his head.
“Oh my god,” she whispered.
“I,” Steve said. “I’ll, help you take these down…”
“I’m going to kill him,” Pepper said through her fingers, alarmingly quietly.
“I know. Let’s just…destroy the evidence, first.”
At least the posters were only spread around the top floor. After triple-checking, Steve was happy to hand a pile of them over to Pepper to burn. And probably work some voodoo magic on.
Of course, he just couldn’t let all this go by without taking a look around, folding one into hasty fourths, and stuffing it into his pocket.
On the Third Day of Christmas
“I didn’t exactly mean for everyone to get an eyeful, you know,” Tony grumbled.
“Oh,” Steve said, “Right, sure. That much was obvious. Why else would you stick up provocative photos of yourself in a public place?”
“Provocative photos,” Tony repeated, mimicking his voice. “I can’t wait until 40s brain gets introduced to dick pics. What would you call those?”
“An abomination, probably,” Steve said, “But that’s beside the point.”
Tony slumped onto the sofa, sprawling out melodramatically. “I thought it would be funny,” he said, pouting. “Was it not funny?”
“It was…a lot of things to a lot of people,” Steve said, pleased with the compromise.
“Don’t give me that. That’s Natasha’s line about truth. You can’t apply that to Iron Man in lingerie.”
Tony sighed briefly. “Well, worth a shot.”
“If anything, she’s more mad at you than ever.”
“Yeah, well. What did I have to lose?”
On the Fourth Day of Christmas
He couldn’t. He really, really couldn’t.
Then again, he couldn’t sleep like this, either.
Steve groaned into his pillow. If he could stop thinking about his friend’s perfect ass cheeks for one minute, that would be all he needed.
That, and his powerful thighs, and the way they’d feel against Steve’s if he…
No. Nope. Nyet.
Or the way he’d grip the v of his hips. The way Tony’s back would arch as Steve showed him exactly how good it could feel…
Steve squirmed at the hips, cock hot as coals and aching against the sheets.
It wasn’t like he never did this, but he had a good track record for self-control. Unfortunately, the handful of times he’d messed around with his own fingers had given him all the fodder he needed to buck his hips just right and think about the kind of sounds he could get out of Tony if he got him wet and open and nudged just right, over and over…
Steve reached out and dragged open his top drawer.
He slipped his left hand down the bed while he felt for paper with the fingertips on his right, quirking up his hips so he could get his hand between the mattress and his body and squeezing, stroking, just to take the edge off, feeling a tinge of guilt but mostly the sinful-sweet bliss of giving in.
He could think about tonguing Tony’s cock hard through the lace front of those panties until the fabric was dark and sopping wet, he could think about flipping him over with his fingertips under the hem, watching him flex through that heart-shaped hole, spreading him, ghosting hot breath and fingers across him and holding him steady if he squirmed—
“Fuck,” Steve gasped, gripping himself hard to keep from coming, nearly biting through his lip with a helpless whimper.
Actually, no. Apparently he couldn’t think about all that.
God, he was close. He was going to have to relinquish all control of his breathing, or he was going to come all over his bed.
He snatched up a tissue and focused on the curve, the shadow of Tony’s ass in that terrible quality print out, parting it just slightly with his cock, hearing Tony growl and sigh and getting lace-burn on his hips as he bucked…
“Fuck,” he breathed again, with a groan of exquisite pain. “Oh, god, yes…”
He blacked out against his arm as the tissue in his hand got wetter and heavier.
He moaned, and wriggled, and let sharp pleasure blunt off into bliss. He hadn’t been so out of breath since the early forties.
At least he’d learned he could never actually have sex with Tony. That would last all of three minutes.
On The Fifth Day Of Christmas
Christmas jumpers ranked among Steve’s favorite modern trends.
Unfortunately, to get to the men’s section, you had to navigate the women’s.
Apparently, whereas winter meant dressing up warm for men, it meant stripping off for the ladies.
Steve stared at the mannequin until his eyes hurt.
He couldn’t imagine Mrs Claus dressing up in a sheer red babydoll, split down the middle and trimmed with white fur; nor in the devilishly strappy lace thong to match.
But he could imagine Tony in them. Tony doing a strip-tease in them. The split down the center showcasing his abs, the taut sheerness suggesting a hint of nipple, the fur plush against his tanned skin, and a trail of rough hair peeking through the pretty, dainty, feminine display; and a cocked eyebrow and a deadpan voice, and an “I know exactly what you want for Christmas, you naughty, naughty boy…”
Steve blinked before his eyes could fog up. His clothes seemed to itch, too hot and too tight, and it was the middle of the afternoon, and he was surrounded by people, and he still couldn’t stop looking at that damn mannequin.
This is sick, he thought to himself. Don’t be that one pervert standing in public with a hard-on. Don’t be that creepy weirdo who rubs himself through his pocket over topless mannequins. For god’s sake, you’re Captain America. And it’s the holidays.
He willed his boner away by thinking of a young child saying “scarred for life”, over and over.
On the Sixth Day of Christmas
“I wasn’t-huh-“ Steve tried to say, but his face was pressed against the sofa. He lifted his head with a quiet groan. “What’d I miss?”
"Not a lot,” Bruce said, giving him what seemed to be a sympathetic look. That was worrying. “Food’s here.”
“Was I drooling?” Steve asked, pawing at his chin in disgust.
“Just a little. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
Steve’s eyebrows sky-rocketed. “What did I say?”
Bruce laughed. “Nothing incriminating, don’t worry.”
Steve groaned, covering his face to hide the pink he could see rising in his nose. “Well, thanks for the heads up…”
On the Seventh Day of Christmas
He didn’t seem to be actively flirting with Pepper anymore, or if he did, he was the same with everyone. The words just came out, as if by force of habit.
“You know, it’s funny,” he mused. “I’m a bad boy every year, and Santa’s still so kind to me.”
Steve pressed his lips together to hide his smile.
Pepper was in there at the time, but it wasn’t directed at her. She was busy decorating a tree, stopping only to take a phone call and violently berate someone for suggesting green decorations outside the tower (“Red and gold. Not the Christmas colors anymore,” Tony had said. “They’re Iron Man colors now, baby.”)
It was only because she was still ignoring him that he pressed on. There was no longer any weight behind it.
“I deserve a good spanking, don’t I, Pep. …Pep?”
“Ask Steve for a few rounds, then,” she said, not looking at him. “He’s always happy to beat you up.”
Although he knew she’d probably singled him out at random, Steve flushed at the ears.
It would be really awkward to leave right after that, but that image was doing things to him. It was just a problem that thinking about Tony left a steel rod in his pants.
He didn’t mean to excuse himself, didn’t mean to speed walk to his bedroom, but his body was hot and begging for it and he had to unload before he could face anyone else today.
No pussyfooting. Flies down, poster out, desperate shame, heat and need, spread and fuck.
What he wouldn’t do to have him. What he wouldn’t do to have a less embarrassing Kryptonite. Or, at least, for it to have a less embarrassing effect than to short wire his system, leave him leaking, running off to beat off like a hormone-drunk schoolboy.
It wasn’t slow or considered. He didn’t have time to take his time. His hand was flying and he was in a different dimension.
Maybe it was an accident; maybe it was what his subconscious wanted to happen. Either way, he came hot spurts right over the poster, dripping down Tony’s ass, sliding down Tony’s legs.
He had to remind himself to breathe.
On the Eighth Day of Christmas
Tony appeared behind the cloud of flour Steve was dusting off his hands.
“What, no ‘kiss the chef’ apron? What do I have to resort to, mistletoe?”
Steve grinned at the floor, which gave Tony enough time to grab the whisk from the mixing bowl and start licking at it.
“Mm. This is good. What is it?”
“You have no manners,” Steve complained, staring at his tongue. He folded his arms. “Christmas cookies.”
“Mm. And what’s in the oven?”
That was when he bent over to take a look inside it.
He probably said something else, but Steve was entirely occupied with thinking about walking right up behind him and pinning his hands to the counter.
And sliding into contact with that perfect ass, and undoing Tony’s belt, and
And squeezing it, hard, pulling down his pants without ceremony, and
“Steve? What are you…”
And taking out his cock, and whispering “Chef’s perks,” and
Steve nearly dropped the cookie cutter. “Huh? What?”
Tony raised his eyebrows. “I think it’s risen.”
“What?” he blurted.
Tony looked at him like he was missing a brain. “The dough?”
“Oh.” Dang. “Right. I guess I…I better…take it out…”
“I can take care of that,” Tony said. “As long as I get a taste?”
“Uh,” Steve said, trying to focus, because he was a tactician through thick and thin. “Did you hear that?”
Tony straightened up. “Hear what?”
“It sounded like something exploding downstairs.”
Tony frowned. “If someone’s let Barton off his leash again, I swear…”
He made his way out of the kitchen.
Steve immediately released a breath and turned around, leaning over the counter, breathing in hard, little bright lights dancing in front of his eyes after every blink.
On the Ninth Day of Christmas
This, if nothing else, ought to give him some peace of mind.
There was nothing as peaceful as a house of god, nothing better for clearing your head than a touching nativity scene and a choir of angels.
And, Steve noted, it was wonderful to see angels of so many races.
The children rattled out their hymns, and the pews were as cosy as pie. The audience was nothing but silent contentment - easily the best sound Steve knew of - and he joined in each round of applause with gusto.
It was a shame, really, that here he finally felt calm enough to fall asleep. The warmth, the atmosphere, and those bright, cherubic faces, fidgeting and smiling…
“Give me joy in my heart, fuck my brains out,” the children sang.
Steve’s neck shot straight so fast it hurt.
He looked gingerly to his right.
“Give me joy in my heart, I pray,” they sang.
He’d clearly drifted off for a moment, imagining things. He could feel how fast his heart was racing, now he knew he’d been mistaken.
“Give me joy in my heart, fuck my brains out.”
Steve’s eyes bulged, mouth dropping open, but nobody else around seemed to notice the horrendous hellfire of blasphemy going down up by the chancel.
“Fuck my brains out till the break of day!”
This met with joyous applause, mothers standing, fathers nodding, elderly couples resting their heads on each other’s shoulders.
Steve stared around the church, wondering if absolutely everyone had gone mad, or if it was just him.
He was sorely tempted to ask, but judging by the mesmerised, glowing expression on every face around him, it would be a bad idea to go “Excuse me, but did that choir of children just drop an F-bomb?”
Oh, this was bad.
Was nothing sacred? What next - fantasies about crucifix dildos?
No, Steve snapped at himself internally, as his mind drifted to lube and a certain pair of backless panties.
On the Tenth Day of Christmas
He hoped no one saw him stepping into the confessional. That was a headline in itself.
The voice that asked how it could help him was so calm and quiet that Steve lost the words he was going to say, panicking at the gravity of his confession.
“I…I’ve been having thoughts. Bad thoughts. I mean, really bad.”
“Well, you’ve come at the right time,” the voice joked. “Bad thoughts are easier to handle than skeletons in your closet.”
“Yeah,” Steve said. “Well, about that closet…”
There was a pause. “Ah.”
“Is the problem general, or does it have triggers?”
“Both. Well, just the one trigger.”
“And is this something you can avoid?”
“He’s one of my best friends,” Steve murmured. “Also, we kind of work together.”
“I’m hearing a ‘no’.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m here. I don’t know what else to do.”
“Crushes are common and natural. This may well pass.”
Crushes, maybe. I doubt you’d say the same about the X-rated things I want to do to him.
“It’s scaring me,” Steve said suddenly. “Not because it’s happening, but because I don’t even care. I always thought it was wrong, but this doesn’t feel that way. And that’s why I feel guilty.”
“Perhaps there is some element in this man which you admire, which you seek to embody yourself. Is there anything you can learn from him about making yourself whole?”
“He’s just…” Steve didn’t know how to continue that sentence without giving the whole game away. “It’s just, he makes me…” That, too, was hard to finish. “I want…”
Well, that last one covered all bases.
The word ‘fuck’ didn’t even cover it. He wanted to tease at his sweet spot until he was squirming, swearing, shivering. He wanted Tony clenching tight around him as he shouted out release. He wanted hot cum running down Tony’s thighs, wanted him on his knees and begging for it, backing up against him, wanted to kiss his neck and pull at his cock while he rocked himself back and forth inside him.
Steve pinched his brow, hand shaking.
“I can’t even deny it anymore,” he whispered, miserably. “He turns me on like nothing else ever has, and I’m crazy about him, and I don’t want him out of my life. Which, by the way, probably makes me certifiably insane.”
There was a fair bit of uncomfortable coughing from the other side before it spoke.
“Look. Maybe I’m the wrong guy to have on duty today, but as I see it, love is love. I don’t think it hurts people, and that’s as simple as that.”
“I think he’s straight,” Steve said.
“Oh.” A pause. “Well, hey, premarital relations go against the code whatever your gender. This way you’re clean on both counts.”
“I’ll be sure to hold onto that,” Steve sighed.
On the Eleventh Day of Christmas
Tony wasn’t making eyes at him. At least not as far as Steve was aware. He was just a flirty drunk, and it was better for Steve’s sanity to try to avoid that. Luckily, the party was bustling, so avoiding everyone was only too easy.
Each time he did pass Tony, though, he could hear him getting progressively tipsier, making shockingly blue puns about stockings and candy canes and snowballs.
And Steve just wanted him. No thinking, no talking. He wanted to lead him away from the crowds, just for once, and just have him alone, just breathe him in. Tony alone was a gift few people ever got, and he just wanted to hold him, quietly, even for a minute.
And kiss him. He could hardly breathe from wanting to kiss him.
At the same time, he hated it when they brushed each other, when they made eye contact, or smiled or spoke, or even got too close. His body was tricking him, flooding him with chemistry only he felt. Shivers rippled through him and he firmed up in his pants, just slightly, with false anticipation.
Tony was lounging in an armchair the next time Steve saw him; and when he saw Steve, he reached up and tugged on his shirt, pulling him onto his lap. “Steve! And what do you want for Christmas?”
Steve could feel the contact of their thighs, and rich tingles flooded through him. “This isn’t creepy at all,” Steve said uncomfortably.
“Come on - anything you want. Your wish is my command.”
Steve frowned and made to move, but Tony held tight.
“You’re not getting out of it that easy, soldier. Pick your poison.”
Steve stared at him.
Tony’s eyes were rich and warm and playful, and there was something of a challenge there, and something more behind it.
If Tony was going to play it like this, Steve was damn well going to enjoy sitting on his lap. Everyone around him was drunk, it was Christmas, and he didn’t know what the buzz was, but it made him look Tony up and down with every hunger he’d ever felt for him.
Tony, credit due, shut up entirely. In fact, his lips parted a little in shock.
Steve could feel his breath against his lips. It would have been so, so easy to lean in and kiss him - in fact, not doing so seemed a heinous breach of his own biology. But the room was swimming with people, and he couldn’t just take Tony’s rough lips with his own.
Steve cleared his throat. “Well. I…I want…”
Tony’s lips moved ever so slightly, like he kept changing his mind about what he was going to say before he had time to get the words out. It still left him out of breath, though. “Well,” he echoed. He swallowed dryly. “That…that is…unexpected.”
There was a rich warmth under Steve’s leg, followed by an insistent poking that sent him into a brief dizzy spell.
“Oh,” Steve said, quietly.
Tony swallowed. “Yeah.”
Steve tried not to shift on his lap. This situation had less than a minute before going nuclear. “Uh. Your grotto, or mine?”
Tony swallowed again, looking for all the world like he was holding his breath, and sounding about as hoarse. “Mine. Yeah. I, uh - yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and take you back to mine.”
If they made it out of the room without arousing suspicion, it was a Christmas miracle.