Angela, Zolac no Miko (zolac_no_miko) wrote,
Angela, Zolac no Miko

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Hey, it's really nice in here

Title: Hey, it's really nice in here
Characters/Pairing: Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson; Steve/Sam
Rating: PG-13/T
Word Count: 1362
Summary: They had set out to look for Bucky, but mostly what they found was underground Hydra outposts. Sometimes literally underground. Mostly what they also found was trouble.
Warnings: Spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, naughty language, sexiness.
Disclaimer: Named characters and certain plot elements in this story are © Marvel Entertainment and Walt Disney Pictures. All content is fictional and for entertainment purposes only, not for profit.

Notes: A birthday present for the lovely and talented nerdwegian, only a few days late, which is pretty good for me! I'm grateful for the excuse to break my writer's block. She asked for tropes, and this was the first and best and tropiest thing I could think of. She suggested Steve/Sam as an option, and I was delighted to give them a try! I hope y'all enjoy this silly thing as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Much mahalos to my darling lovely regonym for the quick beta. This is me renewing your lease on my soul, yet again. ♥♥♥♥

Posted to avengers_2k.

This story also available on AO3.

~ ~ ~

They had set out to look for Bucky, but mostly what they found was underground Hydra outposts.

Sometimes literally underground.

Mostly what they also found was trouble.

“Hsst! What was that?” At Steve's whisper Sam froze instantly, and both men held their breath, listening. Steve strained to see if he could hear it again.

After a moment, Sam shook his head. “It's nothing, man. A rat, maybe. Look at this place, it's been abandoned for yea—”

A loud clunk interrupted him, followed by the clamor of voices and heavy boots. Up around the corner; distant, but not distant enough, and getting closer. Steve swore under his breath. Sam didn't bother. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!” he hissed. “Had to be while we're in the fifty-mile concrete hallway, too, there's no cover—”

Glancing around, Steve spotted a door; wrenching it open, he grabbed Sam's arm and hustled them both inside, shutting the door firmly behind them.

There was a moment of quiet in the darkness, then Sam began to laugh. Not loudly, but Steve could hear the little giggling hiccups of his voice; he could feel the puffs of hot air brush the skin of his neck, feel Sam's entire body shaking with amusement against him. “Oh my God,” he breathed. “Steve Rogers, are we hiding in a utility closet?”

The shield on Steve's back was pressed against the closed door. His entire front—chest, thighs, the toes of his boots—was pressed against Sam Wilson. The room smelled like dust and cleaning supplies. There was absolutely no room to maneuver. “That does seem to be the case,” Steve agreed.

Another wave of giggles shuddered against him. “Oh man. This is classic. There are so many jokes I could make right now,” Sam gasped.

“Let's pretend you've made them,” Steve suggested, then squeezed a warning with his hand; they fell silent, straining to listen for any sign of danger as the herd of booted feet approached them. Steve was pretty sure he'd just squeezed Sam's thigh. He tried not to think about it.

He tried.

Steve tried really hard to concentrate on the imminent danger and death that was marching just outside. It was just that in the pitch dark of the closet, all of his other already–serum–enhanced senses were heightened further, and he was bombarded by a clamor of Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam!!—the press of hard muscle and body armor; the soft sound of his breaths and, even softer, his heartbeat; the heat of his body seeping through their uniforms; his smell

Steve swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut in a futile attempt to cut off the sensations. He breathed in deep, let it out long and shuddering. Oh God, he thought, panicking a little. Not now, Rogers, not now, this is the worst timing, the actual fucking worst. Think of something else. Something unsexy. Colonel Phillips naked on a cold day. Colonel Phillips naked on a cold day.

“What?” Sam whispered.

Hellshitfuckdamn, he'd whispered that out loud. “Nothing,” Steve muttered, hoping fervently for the ground to open beneath him and swallow him up.

“Uh-huh.” Sam sounded amused. Damn. “Hey, so it sounds like those guys have put some distance between us, what do you say we make like a tree?”

“And get the hell out of here?” Steve felt behind him for the latch and turned it. He froze. He tried rattling it a little. “Um.”

“What's up?”

“These jerks seem to have designed a utility closet you can't unlock from the inside.”

“Can't you just bust the door down? I thought that was your thing, busting down doors.”

“Funny. And no, not without making a ruckus.”

“Lemme see.” Sam wriggled a hand past Steve and Steve shifted to make room, creating some pretty agonizing friction against his...groin area. Steve bit his lip and recited a Hail Mary. In his head without whispering this time, so there was that, at least. “Doesn't seem too complicated. Let me get my tools, I think I can jimmy the latch, no problem.”

Steve could feel his eyebrows raising clear to his hairline. Evidently Sam could feel them too, or at least the vacuum of the air they'd displaced. “Do not ask me where I learned to do this.”

Steve grinned wide, and he didn't bother to try to keep the wicked delight from his voice. “Samuel. Thomas. Wilson,” he exclaimed in his best scandalized tone.

“Shut up.” Sam had wriggled his hand back around, and now it squirmed down between them, wiggling into one of Sam's front pants pockets. Steve's mouth shut with a snap. He tried valiantly to swallow a groan, but a small, breathy whimper escaped without his consent. ...Maybe Sam hadn't heard it. Somehow. Oh God. Sam's wrist twisted in the bowl of Steve's hip, nestled snugly against the goods, and Steve really really hoped his jock was more effective at containing the situation than he thought it was.

“Got it.” Sam's hand withdrew, but now both of his arms were snaking around Steve's waist. “Okay, Cap, I'm going to need as much space back here as you can give me.” Of course he did. Steve steeled himself, then pressed himself as fully into Sam's space as he could manage, trying to give Sam's hands room to work. Sam's right hand brushed against Steve's ass, and he gave a full body twitch. He bit the inside of his cheek. Unsexy thoughts. Baseball. Zombies. Director Fury in a bikini.

“You all right there, Steve?” Sam's hand was now pretty much constantly stroking against Steve's ass. “You got kinda quiet on me. You seem a little...tense.”

Steve despaired of life. Jock or no jock, there was no way Sam could miss the hard-on that was drilling into his abdomen. Steve opened his mouth, grasping for an apology, an explanation, anything that could salvage this; then his eyes narrowed and his mouth shut. “Sam Wilson, you ass, you're doing this on purpose!”

Sam cackled. “Hey, man, you wouldn't let me make the jokes! This was too good of an opportunity to pass up.” Sam's voice was rich with amusement, and something else, too, something with a little more...promise.

Steve hesitated only briefly, then he carefully and decisively shifted his thigh so that it was pressed in against Sam's inseam; Sam hissed and wow, yeah, his jockstrap wasn't hiding anything either. They stood frozen for a moment, Steve transfixed by the damp, warm sound of Sam's breathing. Steve lunged in for a kiss and regretted it immediately, his teeth colliding with Sam's with a loud clack and a sting of pain.

“Fucking ow! Steve!”

“OhGodI'msosorry.” Steve was still waiting for that hole to swallow him up. Any day now, seriously. Sam was shaking with silent, breathless laughter. Steve hated everything. “Shit, I think my lip is bleeding.”

Sam sounded like he might be crying. “Jesus Rogers, you are so fucking useless, how do you even,” he gasped.

Steve sighed. “Yuck it up, asshole,” he grumbled.

Sam cleared his throat a few times and got his laughter under control. He rested his forehead against Steve's shoulder for a moment, then he turned and nuzzled up under Steve's jawline, getting himself a healthy and very intentional handful of Steve's ass. Steve's gadget, which had been drooping a little from mortification, stood right back up at attention. Sam felt his way carefully across to Steve's mouth and eased him into a slower, deeper, and much more satisfying kiss, although Steve felt he was being much more careful of Steve's split lip than was absolutely necessary. “What do you say I finish getting our asses out of here, we burn this place down real quick, and then we go find ourselves somewhere more comfortable than a utility closet, hmm?” Sam murmured against his lips.

“Hell yes,” Steve breathed, then cleared his throat. “I mean.” He grinned wide. “I agree. I think it's time we came out of the closet.”

Sam tried, largely unsuccessfully, to elbow Steve in the stomach. “Oh, you're allowed to make stupid closet jokes, that's how it is?”

Steve grinned even wider. “Oh, that's how it is.”

~ ~ ~

(("Gadget" is a slang term for penis circa 1942. "Goods" is more familiar to contemporary audiences, but as a term for male genitals dates back to 1922. (This timeline of penis euphemisms is actual GOLD. As is the timeline of vagina euphemisms.) I'm sure Steve is adapting to modern slang quickly, but if he's anything like me, he's slow to adopt new genital euphemisms, and things like "dick" and "boner" meant completely different things in the '40s.

The title is from an episode of South Park. Cookies if you know which one.

I also sneakily reference Austin Powers, because that's how I roll.))
Tags: captain america, captain america movies, fanfic, marvel, marvel cinematic universe, sam wilson, steve rogers, writey
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