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Tony blames movie night. More specifically, he blames Clint, who always picks the worst movies he can think of and then spends the hour leading up to the film getting every single Avenger as drunk as humanly possible. On that fateful night, the night Tony realized, he’d managed to duck most of Clint’s libations, but Steve had gotten a whole bottle of Thor’s ass-kicking grog all to himself and by movie time he had been draped over the couch upside down, shirt pooling around his ridiculous pecs and skin flushing red.

“What’s the movie tonight?” Bruce, their sober sane adult supervisor in this whole mad endeavor, had said. And Clint had said “Not Another Teen Movie” and reveled in the groans of his fellow teammates. And then Tony’s hell had begun.

“I’m tellin’ ya. Dude looks like Steve.”

“Yeah, if Steve had black hair and a douchey attitude.”

“But like, look at him.”

And Tony had looked, and god help him. The guy on-screen hadn’t even looked that good in the whipped cream bikini, but Tony’s mind had substituted Steve draped over the back of the couch with a come hither smile and all of a sudden…Well, Tony was glad Pepper had insisted on mountains of throw pillows.

He’d figured it would be a one off. He’s never really been much of one for food in the bedroom. Or food in general really. It’s messy, time-consuming, and frankly almost always over-hyped. But the next morning he’d walked into the kitchen and Steve had been drinking milk straight from the carton and Tony had been forced to turn around and retreat to his shower for a friendly few minutes with his hand.

The next time was a banana. Tony still gets instantly hard even thinking about it. After that it was toast. Fucking toast. There is absolutely nothing sexy about toast, but the moment Tony had seen Steve lick a stray dribble of butter from his thumb, toast had become the hottest thing Tony had ever seen. At least since the banana. And then there was the beer bottle. The ice cream. The spaghetti. Peanut butter straight from the jar. Celery sticks. Cherries. And jello. Good God, the jello. Tony’s doesn’t even know how Steve managed to do that thing with his tongue and the…

Anyway, it’s all Clint’s fault. That’s the point. And the worst of it is, Tony is about 200% sure that Natasha’s noticed. There are only so many times he can use a throw pillow as a crotch shield before the resident spy becomes suspicious. She’s looking at him now, eyebrow raised, tiny smirk dancing at the edge of her mouth as she hands Steve a Twizzler’s Pull-N-Peel. And god help him, Steve is sucking each individual strand in like the goddamn spaghetti and Tony is only human.

“Want one Tony?” she says, holding the bag innocently into space. Tony twitches, catches Steve’s inquisitive eye, the Pull-N-Peel still halfway out of his perfect goddamned lips, and flees. He definitely does not whimper. Definitely not. He hears someone call out to him, but he’s already in the elevator (bless Jarvis, looking out for daddy) and the doors are sliding shut. Tony spends the rest of the night running rocket science for NASA and not thinking about cherry red lips.

A few days later, Tony’s worst nightmare is realized. Steve comes down to the lab, two pints of Ben and Jerry’s and a bottle of chocolate sauce balanced in his hands. “Take a break?” Steve says, offering the ice cream in a way that clearly says he’s not asking, no matter what the question mark he inflected says. Tony reluctantly shoves away from his desk and takes both ice cream and spoon.

“So,” Steve says as he gently pries the lid off his pint, “did I do something wrong?”

Tony pauses, spoon halfway to ice cream and says, “What?”

“It’s just lately, every time you come up to the kitchen, you almost always leave again right away. Clint says you don’t do it when I’m not there. And then you ran off during movie night, and you’ve never done that before. So it’s me. What did I do? Was it the training the other week? I know I was hard on you, but I didn’t think—“

“What? No, Steve. No, that’s not…What I mean is…” But Steve is dribbling chocolate sauce over his ice cream and Tony has a sudden flash. That sauce on his chest and Steve’s tongue lapping it up and…The world tilts sideways and Tony spins away, throwing up his hands. “You didn’t do anything,” he says hurriedly, pulling up the first diagram that catches his eye. “It’s definitely not you.”

“What is it then? I want us to be comfortable together and I thought we already had that, but you avoiding me at mealtimes is…That doesn’t say comfort to me.”

Hate to know what a raging erection says to you, Tony thinks, but he doesn’t say that out loud. Instead, he grabs the latest battle footage. “You think Clint’s favoring his shoulder again? You know he’d never say anything about it.”

“Tony,” Steve says, and puts his hand on Tony’s chair, spinning it back around. Shit fuck balls, no, Steve…

For a moment there’s total silence. Steve’s an observant guy. Intelligent. He’s got artist’s eyes and he sees things a lot of them miss. But Tony’s pretty sure it’s not just that. Steve’s a strategist, too; he’s putting the pieces together. The way his brow has crinkled, the way his lips are pursing. Steve’s looking at all the angles, studying his clues.

He frozen leaning forward, one hand still on the back of Tony’s chair, and somehow that makes Tony even more aware of the space between them, their knees almost touching. In a way it’s strangely comforting to be boxed in by him. There’s no running now. Tony will just have to accept whatever anger or disgust Steve doles out and that’ll be that.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Steve murmurs finally, the leather of Tony’s chair creaking under his grip.

Tony snorts and leans back, shifting uncomfortably. “What was I gonna say? ‘Steve, the sight of you with food makes me go weak in the knees? Please eat me up too while you’re at it.’ I’m not about to fuck up our friendship over a little…a little…not that it’s little. It’s…nevermind. Not the point. It’s fine. It’ll pass. Just some dumb…I don’t know. Mid-life crisis tick or something.”

“Oh,” Steve says slowly, and his eyes dart to the ice cream. “Oh.” Then Steve gets that look, and Tony’s brain short-circuits. It’s the look. The one he gives reporters just before he opens his mouth and says something controversial. The one he tosses Doom every time a new robot army invades New York. The one he wears when Clint double dog dares him to eat a fucking ghost pepper.

Very slowly and deliberately, Steve shifts his fingers over Tony’s shoulder and down his sternum, diaphragm, stomach and belly button until he’s got Tony’s hem in hand. Steve glances up, asking for permission, and all Tony can do is give a slack-jawed nod. The shirt’s up and over his head before he can blink, and then he’s bare-chested, Steve’s fingers brushing over the waist of his jeans. “Eat you up, huh?” he murmurs, and Tony has to close his eyes. He’s not sure he can take the look Steve is giving him.

Doesn’t seem to matter, though. Steve’s got other ideas. He takes Tony by the wrist and pulls him up, hands running covetously over his arms, his shoulders. Steve runs hot, and Tony’s practically melting under the fire of his touch, pressing into it as Steve urges him onto the couch.

“Stay right there,” he says, and then retreats to Tony’s table. There he strips off his T-shirt and retrieves his ice cream and chocolate sauce. He returns with deliberate steps, studying Tony up and down, calculating. With one solid hand, he urges Tony down onto his back and then swings a leg over. It’s a bit awkward on the narrow couch, but hell if Tony cares. Steve’s straddling him and looking hungry.

“You know,” he says, tracing one finger along the bottom of Tony’s pec, “I forgot the bowls. You mind if I…”

“G…” Tony chokes on his own tongue and then manages to say, “Go right ahead.”

Steve smirks at that and digs a spoon into the ice cream. After a considered moment, he drops his huge scoop on Tony’s belly button. Tony jumps with the cold, but a moment later, Steve is bending practically in two to lap at the ice cream that’s already melting down his side, and that has him arching up into it, silently begging for more.

Steve hums and sits up again. “Think it needs some sauce. What do you think?”

“Dunno,” Tony manages, and Steve considers that for a moment before running a finger through the ice cream. He offers it to Tony with an expectant look, and Tony sucks the finger into his mouth, barely registering the ice cream at all in the face of the idea that he and Steve are actually doing this.

Steve pulls back after a moment and raises an eyebrow. “Whataya think? Sauce?”

“Please,” Tony says, and bites his lip when Steve upends the bottle over his stomach. He makes a very deliberate spiral which starts over the ice cream melting in Tony’s navel and ends in the center of his chest, though he carefully avoids the reactor. Steve studies his handwork and then sets both ice cream and chocolate sauce aside. Without so much as a warning, he sets to work, first licking at the ice cream. It’s positively obscene, the way his tongue curls around that scoop, and Tony is enraptured by the sight. Steve works slowly, but he’s careful not to let any of the melting ice cream dribble down Tony’s sides to make a mess. Each touch of his tongue against skin elicits a groan from Tony, and he twists beneath Steve’s hips, needing more.

By the time he’s sucking out the well of Tony’s bellybutton, Tony is rolling beneath him, trying to grind into Steve’s chest, but it’s futile. Steve’s too flexible, and he carefully makes sure that Tony has nothing solid to work against. “Still ok?” he murmurs, glancing up as he bites gently at the skin.

“God, Steve, how can you even…yes. Please, more.”

Steve smirks at that and starts in on the chocolate sauce. He works his way along the dark line, sucking, licking, occasionally nipping. He takes a detour at Tony’s left nipple that leaves Tony writhing. “God, please stop teasing, Steve, I can’t…”

“Who’s teasing?” Steve says, and carefully bites until Tony cries out with want. It’s clear he means to take his time, no matter how Tony begs. By the time he’s worked his way halfway down the spiral, Tony is insensate, fingers laced through Steve’s hair and hips working uselessly. Steve is nothing if not thorough, and he doesn’t move on until every trace of chocolate is gone, and Tony’s skin gleams with sweat and saliva.

“Good?” he asks as he approaches the end, and Tony can’t even put together an answer. He just groans and arches his back, seeking. Steve repositions his hands to hold Tony’s hips down, the bastard, and leans in until he’s putting the barest pressure against Tony’s cock. It’s almost worse than nothing at all.

At the tail end of the spiral, Steve sucks and bites until he’s left a mark, and Tony revels in it, taking whatever little leeway Steve will give him to grind up. Steve hums, surveying his work, and then sits up and finally kisses Tony. He tastes like chocolate and vanilla ice cream, and Tony laps at him, trying to return even just a fraction of what Steve’s given him. “I’m still hungry,” Steve says, and his hands are already on Tony’s fly.

He slithers down like a snake and frees Tony’s erection, studying it for a moment as Tony writhes. Tony can barely string together a “please,” and Steve smiles almost shyly before he puts his lips to Tony’s cock. It’s too much. With barely the first touch, Tony comes, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind. He sucks until Tony’s done and then licks up what he missed. Tony barely registers it at all, limp against the sofa, arm over his eyes.

Steve finishes and slides back up, his erection pressing insistently against Tony’s hip. “You ok down there?” he asks, and Tony can hear the smug satisfaction, even though he still can’t manage to open his eyes.

Rather than answer, he yanks Steve down and kisses him, a little sloppily, but no one can fault Tony for lack of enthusiasm. “That,” he says, pulling back just enough to speak, “was exceedingly hot.”

“I thought it was a little icy,” Steve says, and Tony snorts, pressing their foreheads together.

“This is no time for bad jokes. Especially not,” Tony drops one hand to cup Steve’s erection, “when I still haven’t eaten.”

Steve blinks twice, his eyes huge, and then bursts out laughing, collapsing against Tony’s chest. “I can’t,” he wheezes between guffaws, “believe—you just—said that.”

“Worked for you,” Tony grumbles, but he’s smiling too. He puts a damper on Steve’s giggle fit pretty quickly when he starts rubbing, and about five minutes after that, Steve is one begging Tony not to tease. Tony knows his way around a good blowjob, and he can’t help but smirk as Steve falls apart beneath him. It’s almost better than the chocolate sauce. Almost.

When they’re both sated, Tony plastered across Steve, Steve says, “So food, huh.”

“It’s never happened to me before,” Tony says quickly. “New kink for me. How in the fuck you managed to make jello look sexy, I’ll never know.”

“Jello?” Steve says, disbelieving. “The jello got to you?”

“The everything got to me, Steve.”

“Huh.” Tony looks up in time to see Steve’s calculating expression before he carefully schools his face. Tony suspects that he is well and truly fucked.