Work Text:
starkgasm
i just made ur raspberry almond pie & i think my mouth had an orgasm
s.g.r.
You say that about every recipe.
starkgasm
that’s b/c every recipe gives my mouth an orgasm
s.g.r.
You’re nuts.
starkgasm
about u
starkgasm
ur a food god among us mere mortals in our mid-twenties
s.g.r.
All I do is goof around in the kitchen until something comes out decently.
starkgasm
well it *works*
s.g.r.
Did you just use asterisks to *emphasize*?
starkgasm
i think it’s v clear that i did
suzan.truft
STOP FLIRTING WITH EACH OTHER IN THE COMMENTS OF A F**KING FOOD BLOG!
s.g.r.
Sorry ma’am.
starkgasm
*sorry*
Tony smiled at his computer screen as he waited for s.g.r. ’s— Steve’s —reply, but it didn’t come. It had been months since Tony had found the blog.
“DON’T LET BEING BROKE IN YOUR TWENTIES STOP YOU FROM DELICIOUS MEALS” by s.g.r., a culinary school graduate who was currently paying his dues as a waiter at various restaurants around the city. Tony had asked multiple times which restaurant he worked at, but he never got a response. If he did, it was something along the lines of “Sorry but I’m not comfortable giving that information for everyone to see,” which Tony could appreciate and respect. That didn’t mean he didn’t desperately want to meet him.
Steve didn’t continue the conversation after that—Tony assumed that he was attempting to maintain a professional appearance—but that didn’t mean Tony didn’t miss talking to him (Jesus, it had only been five or so minutes!). He’d never met this Steve person, never even seen his face or heard his voice, but he was damned sure that he needed to.
After a long moment, he left one more comment, giving his email address and telling Steve to feel free to email him anytime. It wasn’t ten minutes later that he got an email from [email protected].
From: Steve R
To: Tony S
Subject: It’s Me
Hey,
It’s Steve from the food blog. Maybe now we don’t have to worry about Suzan?
—
“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”
From: Tony S
To: Steve R
Subject: Re: It’s Me
Hey there “me.” What’s going on, mon cheri?
P.S.
Yahoo? Really?
—
“I’m not sarcastic, I’m just intelligent beyond your understanding.”
From: Steve R
To: Tony S
Subject: Re: It’s me
I’m doing well.
I think I was fifteen or something when I made it! Yahoo was where it was at.
Very tasteful signature, by the way. You really are as modest as you come off in the comments.
—
“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”
From: Tony S
To: Steve R
Subject: Re: It’s me
At least it’s not some Babe Ruth quote from 500 years ago. Welcome to the twenty-first century, buddy.
—
“I’m not sarcastic, I’m just intelligent beyond your understanding.”
From: Steve R
To: Tony S
Subject: Re: It’s me
Did you just Google who said it?
Also, yours seems like some kind of angsty middle-school bullshit.
—
“Never let to fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”
From: Tony S
To: Steve R
Subject: Re: It’s me
Didn’t have to. Everyone and their grandmother knows that quote. Mainly because it was said when most grandma’s were at the age to go weak at the needs of ol’ Babe. *swoon*
—
"I’m not sarcastic, I’m just intelligent beyond your understanding.”
From: Steve R
To: Tony S
Subject: Re: It’s me
And who is it that makes you swoon? Gwyneth? Scarlett?
—
“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”
From: Tony S
To: Steve R
Subject: Re: It’s me
I’m more into the Bradley Cooper, Chad Michael Murray type. ;)
—
“I’m not sarcastic, I’m just intelligent beyond your understanding.”
From: Steve R
To: Tony S
Subject: Re: It’s me
Haha, ditto. Also, it’s nice to see that you type with proper grammar when you email.
—
“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”
From: Tony S
To: Steve R
Subject: Re: It’s me
Just tell me you’re not into Channing Tatum.
Please I beg of you. Do not say you’re into Tatum.
& thx 4 lyking muh grammar ;P
—
“I’m not sarcastic, I’m just intelligent beyond your understanding.”
From: Steve R
To: Tony S
Subject: Re: It’s Me
I’m not into Channing Tatum. Please tell me you're not a James Franco kind of guy.
—
“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”
From: Tony S
To: Steve R
Subject: Re: It’s Me
No. No. no. NO!
I had the hugest crush on John Stamos when I was younger, though.
—
“I’m not sarcastic, I’m just intelligent beyond your understanding.”
From: Steve R
To: Tony S
Subject: Re: It’s me
Same. I was so gone for him when I used to watch Full House. To be honest though, I think everyone was pretty gone over him…
—
“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”
From: Tony S
To: Steve R
Subject: Re: It’s me
What do you mean *used* to watch Full House. I feel like you’re the kind of guy who owns all eight seasons on DVD.
—
“I’m not sarcastic, I’m just intelligent beyond your understanding.”
From: Steve R
To: Tony S
Subject Re: It’s me
I do indeed have all eight seasons on DVD. You got a problem with that? Huh, punk?
—
“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”
From: Tony S
To: Steve R
Subject: Re: It’s me
I’d be a pretty big hypocrite if I did considering I also have all eight seasons in the special edition box set shaped like the house.
—
“I’m not sarcastic, I’m just intelligent beyond your understanding.”
From: Steve R
To: Tony S
Subject: Re: It’s me
I have that one, too! Anyway, I have to get ready for work. My shift starts in an hour and I haven’t even showered yet :/
—
“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”
From: Tony S
To: Steve R
Subject: Re: It’s me
Have fun at work. :P
—
"I’m not sarcastic, I’m just intelligent beyond your understanding.”
From: Steve R
To: Tony S
Subject: Re: It’s me
Oh, it will be *so* much fun.
—
“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”
Tony grinned at Steve’s use of asterisks to emphasize. They had an inside joke. They had an inside joke . Tony crossed his fingers and prayed that Steve wasn’t actually some fifty year old guy named Hamilton in his mom’s basement eating crumbs out of his fat folds. While at his computer, he scrolled through a few pages of Steve’s blog, only to find that he really didn’t feel up to cooking. Crinkling his nose, he grabbed his jacket and went outside. Singular Fingurlar was less than a mile from his house and, in New York City, it takes less time to walk a mile than it does to drive.
When he got in, the waitress greeted him by name.
“Your usual booth? It’s in Steve’s section tonight.”
“Yes please. You know you don’t have to tell me the name of the server. I like them all ‘cept for that Barnes guy.”
“And once I sat you in this booth and it was his section and you left without ordering, so I learned my lesson.” The playful banter between the two while she led him to his table had become a thing months ago, when he started religiously eating at Singular Fingular (which was also about the same time he started packing on major pounds, but that’s what good food’ll do to you).
“Thank you, for bringing me to my seat.”
“Not a problem, Tony. It’s my job, remember? Do you need a menu?” Tony gave her a look and she put up her arms in mock surrender. “I have to ask.”
A few moments later the waiter came up. “Welcome to Singular Fingular, can I start you off with something to drink? Oh, Tony! Hi. The usual?”
“Oh Steven, you know me so well.”
Steve smiled fondly. “How many times must I ask you to call me Steve?”
“At least once more, Steven, as always.”
“Quoting movies, as always.”
“Recognizing quotes, as always. You set that one up, though so it doesn’t really count.”
Steve’s mouth quirked up. “That I did. I was wondering if you’d understand the reference.”
“Well, I did. Now scooty your cutie little booty to your station and put in my order. I’m starving.”
And that’s how it went for Tony. Wait eagerly for Steve to update his blog, flirt with him in the comments until someone bitched at them, then went back to emailing. He learned that Steve grew up in Brooklyn but now had a small apartment in Manhattan. Tony explained that he also lived in Manhattan—if Steve told him what restaurant he worked at, Tony’d stop by.
Steve said he’d think about it.
When he wasn’t sitting around waiting for some online friend to get online (which he did far too often), he was attempting to put his Computer Science degree to use. He did some freelance work here and there, but he was desperate for a steady job. He’d gotten a call from a up-and-coming company asking him to help with setting up their systems and he’d been doing some research (hacking) to find out everything he could about the higher-ups before he made a decision.
All of his other time was spent fucking around in his kitchen attempting to recreate Steve’s recipes, fucking around the internet (definitely not looking at cat memes, Rhodes, shut the fuck up), or going to Singular Fingular and flirting with Steve.
He felt kind of skeezy for flirting with waiter Steve while also flirting with blogger Steve, but he had to remind himself that blogger Steve may not even be who he said he was—you can never fucking know with the internet—and waiter Steve was a real, tangible person he could look at and touch. Not that he’d touched! He wasn’t a total asshole pervert.
“Hey, Tony?”
“Yes, Steven?”
Steve rolled his eyes fondly. “I was, uh… I kind of really like you.”
“I like you, too?” Tony said, unsurely.
“No, I mean… I like like you.”
“Do you now?” Tony felt his entire face break into a grin. “That’s interesting because lately I’ve started to like like you, too.”
“I was just wondering if… maybe you’d like to go on a date. With me. Sometime. I mean, you don’t have to—”
“What time do you get off work tonight?”
“Eleven, why?”
Tony smiled. “I know a 24 hour diner a few blocks down. There’s no bad time for pancakes.”
“I’m more of a waffle person,” Steve countered.
“Well, I’m sure they have waffles. So… I’ll meet you here at eleven?”
Steve grinned. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”
Tony checked his phone for the time. “Well, it’s almost eight, which means I only have three hours to prepare for our date and figure out what I’m going to wear!” he threw some money down on the table to pay for his meal. “I’ll pay for dinner tonight instead of tipping you, how does that sound?”
“Sounds good to me, Tony.”
“See you in a few hours, Steven.”
From: Tony S
To: Steve R
Subject: I know you’re still at work, but…
Hey Steve,
So it’s kind of weird since we were just talking today, but I think I’ve met someone. Well, I’ve known them forever but they asked me out and I think really like him? He’s a waiter at my favorite restaurant. I’d still like to be friends but… idk if I should flirt with you anymore.
—
“I’m not sarcastic, I’m just intelligent beyond your understanding.”
Steve looked up from his phone, grinning. As he’d suspected, Tony of Singular Fingular was starkgasm. He shot off a quick email, telling him that it was okay and he’d still like to stay friends and, if it didn’t work out with the waiter guy, he’d always be waiting.
Okay, so maybe he should be lying to Tony, especially since they were only about to go on their first date, but hey… it was kind of fun.
“What’s got you so happy?” Bucky, another server, asked.
“You know that Tony guy that always comes in?”
“Yeah.”
“And you know that guy ‘starkgasm’ from the blog?”
“Yeah…?”
“Same guy.”
“How do you know?”
Steve showed him the most recent email from Tony. “I asked him out about two hours ago. Grabbed my phone just now and saw this email, which was sent about a half hour after that. He’s told me on various occasions that SF is his favorite restaurant and—”
Bucky snorted. “Yeah, gotcha. You got a little Rupert Holmes romance going on. Are you going to go on your date wearing your uniform?”
Steve looked down at his stained black shirt, black apron, and frumpy plain black pants. “Oh.”
“You look great, Stevie. I was just busting your balls. It’s nearly the end of your shift. Why don’t you go wash up?”
“I still have tables.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Always the responsible worker.”
Eventually, the two old ladies on table six decided to get up and leave, but not before they complimented Steve on just about everything. His hair, his muscles, his smile, his serving ability. They knew him by name—they’d told him their’s multiple times but he couldn’t for the life of him remember—and they came in at least once a week. He would smile politely and go along with it because they tipped well.
At 11:04 he was finally able to end his shift. Peaking his head out the front door, he saw Tony sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. His head turned towards the noise.
“Give me two seconds,” Steve insisted, running back inside without waiting for a response. The bathroom was small and cramped and not meant for a man to be checking out his appearance, but there he was. This was going to be the first real impression he made on Tony—not as a blogger, not as a waiter, but as a person—and frankly, he was scared to shit. When he finally deemed himself decent enough, he took a huge breath, coughed at the rank smell of the public restroom, and went outside to see Tony.
“I counted three-hundred and twenty-six seconds. That’s three-hundred and twenty-four seconds more than two. If I didn’t know, I’d say you were blowing me off, Steve.”
“Steve?” He had genuinely been expecting Tony to call him Steven for the rest of the evening, but alas, he was floored at Tony’s use of his preferred name.
“No, I’m Tony.” Tony pointed at himself. “You’re Steve.”
“I know… I know I’m Steve.”
“I should hope so!”
“You said something about a diner?”
“Well, that was the original plan but now I’m starting to think that I should take you to a hospital if you can’t remember your own name.”
“Shut up and take me to dinner. I’m starving. We’re not allowed a break for food on weekend nights. Too busy.”
Tony gaped. “Never?”
“Nope. I usually just go home and eat all the leftovers from the week and I’m good. This’ll be a nice change.”
“Leftovers like takeout and stuff?”
“Nah. I cook a lot.”
“I attempt to cook. There’s this food blog and the guy who runs it, coincidentally also named Steve, puts up the best recipes. I’ve been begging him for a selfie for weeks but he’s adamant that he’d like to keep our interactions strictly to text for right now.”
Steve fought a smile. Of course he wanted to keep their interactions online strictly to text; otherwise Tony would think he’s lying to him. There was a slight pang in his gut when he realized that he was lying to Tony. He shook it off, though, when Tony interrupted his train of thought with a loud, “TA-DA!”
“I used to work here!” Steve said. “In high school. Sophomore year.”
“What happened?”
“Well, considering that was nearly ten years ago—”
Tony shrugged. “Alright, alright. I get it. You’re old. But… if you’re old… than I’m old. How old are you?”
“26?”
“No way! Me, too!” Tony threw his hand up in excitement, Steve mistook it for an invitation for a high five, took it, then shrank into himself. Had he really just high-fived Tony?
“Uh… they fired me,” he said in an attempt to break the tension. Well, he thought there was tension. Maybe there wasn’t. Oh god, this was so awkward. He really liked Tony. What should he do? Oh god.
“Do you know want to go in? It’s New York City. There’s plenty of twenty-four hour joints all over the place.”
“Nah, it’s fine. We can go in. They do have really good waffles here. And I hear the pancakes are alright. For pancakes, that is.”
“What is it with you and your hatred of pancakes?” Tony shot, but there was no real malice in his voice.
—
One date turned into two turned into five turned into taking Tony’s car far enough out of the city where they could lay on the hood and actually see the stars they were making out under every other night.
It was a Saturday. Tony had picked Steve up at work like usual and they had begun strolling through the New York City streets.
“It really is the city that never sleeps, you know?” Tony asked, watching the cars wiz past them.
“It’s only eleven, Tony. Of course there are people still out.”
“What happened to the good ol’ days? Home by six, dinner at six-thirty with the trophy wife and the 2.5 kids and the dog, watch I Love Lucy and go to bed at nine o’clock.”
Steve barked out a laugh. “Are you saying you want to live in the 1950’s? If so, I have a few PSAs on homosexuals you might want to see.”
“Works of art, those things.” After Tony looked around, he said, “Where are we?”
Steve chewed on the bottom of his lip. “Outside my apartment.” He watched as the realization dawned on Tony’s face.
“Oh.”
“There’s some… stuff in the fridge.”
“Leftovers? From your frequent cooking?”
Steve nodded. “Yeah.”
“Is that… all you’re bringing me up for?”
“I… uh… maybe not?”
“Oooooooooh,” Tony grinned that feral grin Steve had grown to know and love. “What else is on the menu, Chef Rogers?”
“Are you going to make me say it?”
“Yes.”
Steve scuffed his shoe on the ground. “Tony. Will you please come up to my apartment and try some of my cooking.”
Tony’s jaw dropped and he took a step away from Steve. “Wait… really?”
“What did you think I meant?” Steve gaped.
“I thought… I thought you were… propositioning me.”
Steve let the corner of his mouth twitch up. “Oh, I was. I just wanted to toy with you. Though I really would appreciate if you’d try some of my cooking.”
They’d barely made it through the door of Steve’s five floor walk-up before Steve was pressing his lips roughly to Tony’s, pinning him against the now closed door. Steve’s mind whirred one hundred miles per hour. When was the last time he’d had sex? Months. He’d stopped sleeping around once he graduated—he figured that was a very college thing to do and he was in the Real World now. There had been that one girlfriend—
“What on earth are you thinking about?” Tony asked, pulling away.
“Uh… nothing,” was Steve’s eloquent answer.
“You’re clearly thinking about some… thing.” The tail end of Tony’s sentence dropped off as he looked around the room. Steve watched as Tony ran his hands along the counter, the fridge, the cabinets, the stove, the stools. “Steve, is there something you’d like to tell me?”
“What?”
“I know this kitchen, Steven Grant Rogers.” His eyes went wide. “Steven Grant Rogers,” he whispered, staring at the floor. “S.G.R.” Tony’s eyes snapped up to look at Steve. “You’re S.G.R! You run the food blog I’m always blathering on about.”
“Yeah,” Steve admitted.
“And… did you know… I talked about you… in the emails… and… oh god.”
Steve smiled to himself, thinking of all the times Tony had emailed him, asking him for date advice. “Tony. It’s not a big deal.”
“Yes it is!” Tony shouted. “It’s a huge fucking deal! Wait… Steve—”
“Yeah?”
“Did you… know it was me?”
Steve, honestly embarrassed for the first time that night, scuffed the toe of his shoe along the ground. “Yeah,” he whispered.
“And you didn’t think to, oh I don’t know, tell me instead of making me look like a fool!” Steve watched as Tony’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“A few reasons.”
“I’m listening,” Tony said when Steve failed to elaborate.
“The first is that I didn’t want to be just a blogger to you. I felt like you had put s.g.r. on a pedestal and I wanted to be Steve. It made sense in my head, okay? Please don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you. And I get where you’re coming from. And I would very much like to try some of your cooking.” Tony let his voice drop a few octaves. “Maybe just maybe you can sway me to like waffles—”
“Yeah, let me just whip up some batter—” Steve was cut off as Tony dragged him down by his skinny work tie and looking him dead in the eyes.
“Tomorrow morning.”
—
The first thought Steve had when he woke up was that he was naked. It wasn’t like he slept in a lot of clothing—usually just some boxers—but he was currently buck ass nude. The second though he had was the realization that he was naked because of sex. Finally, his third thought was to look over and see who was in bed with him.
“Mornin’,” Tony mumbled into Steve’s bicep, where his face was currently planted. Steve could feel a tiny bit of drool seeping from Tony’s mouth. “You’re a late sleeper.”
“You tired me out.”
“We are never going to last if one orgasm tires you out to the point of sleeping until noon.”
“It’s noon?! Shit!” Steve shouted, bolting up and throwing the covers back. Tony shifted in the bed, cracking an eye open lazily.
“What’s up?”
“I have to be at work in two hours.”
“Slow your roll!” Tony chuckled. “Two hours in a long time, hon.”
“Not if you have to cook for your boyfriend, shower, and walk to work. I was hoping you’d join me for the last two.”
“I think that can be arranged,” Tony smirked. “Now, waffles.”
“Be prepared. After you have my waffles you’ll never be able to have another pancake in your life. Are you sure you want to make that commitment?”
“I would eat waffles for you any day.”
They made small talk while Steve made the batter from scratch. Tony saw that there were two things that went on when Steve cooked. The first was that he had a method—he knew what he was doing. The second was that he didn’t necessarily stick to that method. Every once in awhile, Steve would throw something random in “for flavor”.
Steve talked a big game and he damn well lived up to it.
Tony would never be able to eat another pancake.