#burnthefirstorder

It has bells. It has bells.

She’s married to a child. It’d be endearing if it wasn’t so ridiculous.

(Well, no. It’s still kind of endearing.)

Tony is having everyone over for Christmas Eve dinner, and they’ll open presents at midnight and then crash in his dozens of guest rooms, and then they’ll probably have a big breakfast spread in the morning, because it’s Tony and he likes to go a little overboard. Like with his Ugly Christmas Sweater theme for their Christmas Eve dinner.

She pokes fun at Steve for having so many of these things that he can only wear one month a year, but, fuck. She may wear them as much as he does, because they’re soft and comfortable and warm, and they always smell entirely like him. Plus, she usually wears his sweater and nothing else underneath, and she thinks that’s the only thing that can make them feel a little less ridiculous. She knows Steve doesn’t have any complaints about that part, either, even if he likes to pretend to be annoyed whenever she steals one from his closet. She’s only ever worn them around their apartment, because it’s a sweater with pom-poms, or jingle bells, or colored twinkling lights. She’s not about to wear it out in public.

Unless, evidently, Tony Stark decides otherwise.

“You look adorable,” Wanda had giggled when Natasha shrugged out of her coat, revealing the Rudolph sweater she’d taken from Steve. It has bells at his ankles and in his antlers and on his harness, and since it’s Steve’s, it’s also ridiculously big on her. “I especially like the socks.”

Natasha had laughed, glancing down at the cable knit, over-the-knee socks she’d worn instead of leggings. The sweater is huge on her, coming down to the middle of her thighs, so she took a page out of Wanda’s book and wear the thing like some kind of sweater-dress. Hence, the socks. She’s also not wearing anything on underneath, and Steve knows it.

It’s why he hasn’t stopped touching her all fucking night.

It started with a brush of his fingers. Over her bared shoulder when he passes behind her, along the curve of her calf when he’s sitting on the floor near her feet, against the backs of her thighs as he walks behind her toward the dinner table. He got a little bolder when they were seated next to each other, very nearly making her flinch when his hand wraps around her knee under the table, giving it a squeeze. He’d idly massaged along her thigh, tracing nonsensical patterns into her skin, inching higher and higher up her thigh, until his fingertips had grazed the hem of her sweater, and then he’d slid his hand back down to her knee. He did this over and over and over again, through appetizers and the main course and dessert.

She offers to rinse the dishes off and load them in the washer as an excuse to stand up, because unless Steve is going to push the dinnerware aside and spread her out on the table for everyone else to see, he needs to stop touching her.

She takes her time practically scrubbing each dish off, until not a spec of food is left, and then she rearranges them in the dishwasher three different times to distract herself. It doesn’t really work (not at all, in fact) because her body is still tingling, still relishing in the ghosts of his touch on her thigh, still pulsing from the fact that he’d touched her like that at the dinner table with their friends just a few feet away. She’s always prided herself on her poker face, but still. She wonders if they noticed how flushed her skin became, wonders if they could see how hard her nipples had gotten under her sweater. She wonders if they’d even care. This wouldn’t be the first time she and Steve would’ve had sex with all of them in the other room.

She’s just closed the dishwasher when Steve strolls in, an easy, almost casual smile on his face, one hand tucked into his pocket.

“How’s it going in here?” he asks, and it sounds entirely innocent. There’s even a slight wrinkle to his forehead, as if he’s genuinely curious as to what’s taking her so long.

Fucking asshole.

She narrows her eyes at him, and he actually grins when she grabs him by his penguin sweater and drags him toward the linens closet down the hallway. Pepper is going to kill them when she finds out about this. But Natasha doesn’t care, not even a little.

She shoves him inside, clicking the lock into place behind her. It’s totally dark other than the slivers of light coming in from the kitchen, and there’s not much room at all, so she’s already sort of pressed against him in all the right places, and something akin to a growl rips from her throat as she cups her hand over the back of his neck and yanks him down for a kiss. He makes this noise from the back of his throat that sounds a little like a groan, his hands coming to her hips and giving them a squeeze as he licks his tongue into her mouth.

He slides his hand up her thigh and under her dress, fingers swiping over her sex with the deftness of knowing that he’d find her bare and wet and wanting.

She digs her nails into the muscles of his biceps, shelves digging into her back as she leans her weight against them, her legs already shaking. He’s barely even touched her and she feels like she’s about to burst. He teases at her entrance, then moves his fingers up, circles her little bundle of nerves once, twice, three times.

Her bells are chiming as she squirms under his touch, and the asshole laughs at it. “You’re a little too loud,” he tells her, sounding entirely amused by this as he dips two fingers into her and curls, finding her sweet spot with a few easy strokes, because that’s how well he knows her. She parts her lips, grinds her hips down on his hand. “They can probably hear us.”

“So do something about it,” she retorts, because she knows what he’s doing: asking permission. Because, even though he knows her body just as well as she does, and knows her every thought without her uttering a word, he’s Steve, and he’ll always ask. Usually it’s endearing, but right now, they don’t have time. Not with everyone just down the hallway.

He pulls his fingers from her too quickly, too abruptly, drawing a pathetic, strangled sort of sound from her throat, but he brushes a kiss to her lips as if in apology. Then he curls his fingers around the hem of her sweater and yanks it up and over her head in a harsh, clanging rush of sound, tossing it onto the floor. “Fuck, I wish I could see you properly,” he groans as his hands slide down her sides, over her hips, to the tops of her over-the-knee socks. “I wish I could see you in nothing but these damn things, dripping wet between your legs.”

She lets out this desperate little sound as she kisses him again, her hands coming between them and fumbling with the buckle of his belt.

He’s hard when she gets the front of his pants undone and slips a hand inside, fingers curling around his length and stroking up, once, twice, three times. He groans, lets his forehead fall forward on her shoulder as he gently rolls his hips into her palm.

“Is that what you thought about? Why you’re already so hard?” She runs her thumb over the tip of him, nipping at his ear. “Were you thinking of me?”

It’s a question she knows she’d never, ever had to ask, but he answers honestly all the same. “Yes,” he groans, his grip deliciously tight. She wants him to elaborate – needs him to – and of course he does without her having to utter a word. “I wanted to spread you out on that table. Wanted to push your sweater up and suck on you until you screamed.” She gnaws on her lower lip, giving him a squeeze, and his hand grasps at her wrist to get her to stop. They’re both already teetering so close to that edge. “I don’t think I can last,” he whispers.

She shakes her head. Neither can I, she means, and he groans as if in response, pulling her hand off of him and hooking an arm around her waist. He hoists her up and leans them against the linen shelves as he presses at her entrance—

And then a voice – muffled through the door, but very clearly Tony – carries down the hallway. “…but seriously, every time? This is our house!”

Pepper laughs, her voice sounding closer. “I’m not exactly thrilled about it, either, but what can you do?”

“What can you do?” Tony repeats. “Just because they’re newlyweds doesn’t mean they can get away with having sex in every room in our house! I still miss that glass coffee table.”

“You wouldn’t even have used it after that, so what does it matter?”

“It matters, Pep,” Tony grumbles, and Natasha’s heart skips. They’re standing just outside the door.

Her eyes snap up to Steve’s, finding his gaze through the dark, and honestly, she’s not at all surprised to find him smiling, his eyes sparkling in that amused cockiness that she hates (loves) so much. He teases the tip of him over her little bundle of nerves, and she bites down on her lower lip, hard, muffling a whimper as he leans forward and nips at her jaw.

“If we’re loud enough, do you think they’ll go away?” he whispers into her ear, and, before she can even think of a response, he rolls his hips forward and pushes into her, her lips part open as he bottoms out.