pairing : james patrick march x wife!reader info : vignette, mostly comedy word count : 0.4k tag : @v-inthecortez
The question was, in James Patrick March's opinion, one of the most catastrophically inelegant questions ever posed within the walls of his hotel. He looked genuinely offended by it, clasping a hand over the lapel of his blazer.
The longue of the hotel was eerily empty while you reclined beside him on the velvet sofa, thoroughly entertained already. Liz Taylor, standing nearby, leaning on the bar counter with the exhausted expression of a woman who had long since accepted that this was her life now, pinched the bridge of her nose.
James adjusted his cufflinks with painstaking dignity. “My dear,” he said at last, sounding scandalized, “....must attraction always be reduced to anatomy? What a tragically modern affliction.”
Liz, who asked the question, laughed. “So that’s a no?”
“It is a rather refined answer in contrast to the absurdity of the question.” James corrected smoothly. “A woman’s allure resides in details, Lizzy. One must think of the elegance of her posture, the intelligence of her wardrobe, the subtle artistry of perfume. Ah! Gloves, especially. As well as a well-tailored silhouette. There is nothing more sensual than a turn of a wrist while holding a wine glass.”
You raised your husband a brow. “You sound eighty years old.”
“In fact, I am one hundred-and-thirty.” he protests, making Liz snort loudly into her drink.
James continued as though he were lecturing at university. “True beauty lies in presentation, eliciting grace and mystery. The essence of a true seductress lies in her ability to suggest confidence beneath tease, much like a burlesque.” He gestured faintly toward you without even looking in your direction. “For instance, my wife possesses extraordinary taste in fabrics such as velvet, silk, and structured gowns-”
“She asked what body part you liked best,” you interrupted, trying not to laugh.
“And I am telling you,” James said with perfect seriousness, “...that class eclipses physical preference every time.”
The room dissolved into amused murmurs. You shook your head, smiling into your wine glass as you stood from the sofa.
“Such a gentleman,” you teased, cocking an exasperated sigh towards his path.
“Finally, the recognition I merit.” he quipped.
You rolled your eyes and turned to walk away toward the ballroom doors, silk draping elegantly around your figure as the chandeliers caught in your jewelry. "I think I've had enough to drink. I'll be upstairs if you still need me to entertain your lecture on class."
James, obsessed as he is, watches you leave the room, a pause in his informative tangent on how elegance overpowers indecency.
Then, very subtly, his gaze dropped for half a second at the sway of your hips, showing him the slight shake of your buttocks beneath the silk posterior of your dress before a smug little smirk curled at the edge of his mouth.
Liz, not needing her observational skills as a bartender, saw it immediately. “Oh, you hypocrite.”
James didn’t even blink, he simply lifted his drink with aristocratic composure, brows raised in false nonchalance as he tried his best to conceal the pleased grin beneath his perfectly neat mustache.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”
a/n : ik he likes some rump and his favorite position is doggy
Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? You’re almost certain you’d rather freeze to death. Almost.
WC: 18k+
Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steve’s trauma. reader’s trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.
A/N: Said I wasn’t gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if you’re sick of the van fics, but here’s one more 😅 title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine
♪ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armor’s heavy, never suited me at all / but it’s the devil I know ♬
This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.
Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.
Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.
Leaving you- alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.
Yeah, lucky you.
This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.
You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.
It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.
And that's never your call to make.
Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."
"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.
He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.
Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"
"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."
"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.
"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"
"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."
"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."
"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."
"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"
"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."
Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."
"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"
"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.
Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."
There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.
Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.
Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?
It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.
Until you just… left.
Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.
No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.
You'd drift in, drift out.
Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.
In, out.
All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.
So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.
Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.
When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.
What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?
What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?
What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?
If you stayed… would it have been worth it?
The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.
It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.
That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.
No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.
Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.
Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?
Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.
You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.
Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.
Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.
That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.
Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.
The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.
That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.
You can only tread water for so long, though.
"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"
Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.
"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."
And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.
"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"
"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."
His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.
Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.
What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?
Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.
Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.
"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."
He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."
"God, you're such a bitch."
"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."
"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"
"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"
"Stop!"
"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"
"I meant the van, asshole!"
Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.
Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.
You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"
"Shit, shit, shit!"
Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.
"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"
Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.
His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"
You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.
Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.
"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.
"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"
He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."
Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.
She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"
You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.
"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"
Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."
"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.
In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.
Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."
"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."
So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.
Fantastic.
"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."
Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.
"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"
"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"
Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"
Hopper.
Oh, boy.
Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.
Well, can't say you didn't try.
Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."
You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.
"Okay, where are you exactly?"
The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.
You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.
Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."
"Language."
"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.
"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."
So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.
Way off.
"I- I don't know."
A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.
"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"
Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.
There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."
Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling the flu.
You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.
"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."
You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."
Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."
"I didn't lose the fucking—"
The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.
"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"
"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."
Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.
Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.
"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."
Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.
"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."
There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.
Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.
He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".
"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."
Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."
Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."
Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."
That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.
Together.
Alone.
"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"
A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.
"Yeah, kid. I got it."
In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.
It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.
Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.
"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"
"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"
Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?
"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."
Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"
"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."
"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.
"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.
There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.
Unless…
There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.
You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.
"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."
But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"
"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."
"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."
"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"
His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.
"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"
"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."
"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."
He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"
Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"
"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"
You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"
"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"
"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."
"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"
"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."
"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."
"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.
Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.
The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.
If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.
Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.
The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.
Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.
Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.
Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.
He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.
And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.
So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.
He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.
By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.
Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?
What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.
To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.
To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.
The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.
The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.
He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.
Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.
You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.
Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.
It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.
Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?
In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.
There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.
"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.
You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.
"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.
When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.
"Ow… S'loud," you groan.
"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.
"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.
It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.
Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.
Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.
"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.
Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.
And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.
Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.
Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.
"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.
He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.
Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."
"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."
"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."
The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.
Yeah, you're worse than he thought.
"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"
"M'yeah, s'kay."
If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.
Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.
Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeans— Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.
He sucks in a breath, "Uh… can you get them off yourself?"
"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."
"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.
He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.
"Okay, c'mon, boots first."
Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.
Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.
And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sigh— out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himself— and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.
He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks … fuck me.
You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.
"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."
There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.
At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.
"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.
"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.
"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."
He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.
"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your space— the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ah— shit, I- I'm sorry."
If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.
"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."
You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.
"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"
That's a dumb fucking question.
"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."
When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.
About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.
"Sorry, just, uh… your, uh… the—" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."
"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.
"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."
Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.
Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.
But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.
Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"
"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.
You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."
He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.
What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as… some horny creep.
Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.
"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."
He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?
That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.
Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.
Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.
He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.
That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.
The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleep— they sleep, right?
God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?
Whatever.
It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that's— no. Just no.
The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.
Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.
That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.
Okay, focus. Think about… concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks and—
"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"
Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.
Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."
Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.
Which, yeah— you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.
He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.
"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.
He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.
"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."
Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."
The words ache with more desperation than he intends.
"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.
"A- ah—" Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.
"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"
He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"
"Fu- fucking cold."
"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."
You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."
"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."
You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.
Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.
Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.
Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.
"Be n- n- nice!"
"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"
"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"
The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.
Like a fucking fool.
"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."
The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.
"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."
"I do, it's just—" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"
You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um… I g- guess?"
"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"
"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.
He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."
"You could h- have some f'ya' want."
"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."
"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."
"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.
You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."
He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more… s'good for me."
Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.
"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.
You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.
"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you're— you like me, or something."
Oh, if only you knew.
"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"
"Make wh- what weird?"
Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.
The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fu— fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."
"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."
"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.
The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.
"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don't— hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."
"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "… Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."
You sound mortified.
"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"
"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I just— friction causes he- heat, and I didn't— I wasn't tr- tr- trying to—"
He nervously chuckles, not at you, just— well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?
"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."
"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."
He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.
There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.
Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.
Talk about something else. Anything.
"Hey… thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.
"Hm? Wi- with what?"
"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad… could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."
"We still ended up in a ditch—"
"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."
You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.
"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin' boat."
Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."
"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."
Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.
"… We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."
"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.
"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."
It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.
"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let down— be a let down to you, eventually."
He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.
"… What?"
Because since when do you care about letting him down?
"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."
Steve would do anything— hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-bats— if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.
"Even when it was elsewhere, it—" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you just… leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptly— you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."
And look where that got the two of you.
Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.
You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to… to trust. It scares the hell out of me."
"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."
"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."
"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilot— courtesy of his heart— as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."
The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."
We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.
"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."
An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.
Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.
"I still have nightmares, and I—" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too… and I- I can't do anything but watch."
It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but now…
Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.
And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.
"Then you just… you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting close—"
"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just… acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I felt… guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been th—"
"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the spring…" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "… But so was I."
Scared is an understatement.
He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.
He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die trying— to Steve, no other choices existed.
He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustin— two children— that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.
And the Mind Flayer— Jesus Christ— that fuckin'… thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam and—
Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.
Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.
Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.
Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.
And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.
Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.
Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shambles— yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.
If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.
And you.
You— he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, and… and—
It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.
He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.
Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.
So much wasted time—
"Steve?"
Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.
Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the start—"
"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we… start over?"
A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um… we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."
"Oh my god, Steve."
"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."
"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.
"Oh, what, I'm sorry— did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'm— fuck."
Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.
"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.
"I mean… it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."
"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."
Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.
"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "… Still do."
A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.
The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.
"Fuck, shit, fuck—"
Yeah. He's hard.
He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.
Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."
"Uh-huh…" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keep—"
Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."
Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.
"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah but—" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- now—"
Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."
He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?
"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."
"No, no, I'm—" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour ago—"
"Not to death."
"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."
"But you're the one who suggested—" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"
"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"
"Okay…" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"
He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pink— now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.
"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "… Bats."
"The same that…" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that… that attacked Eddie?"
"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."
"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.
No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.
"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."
"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "Steve…"
He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flare— like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.
Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than once— one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.
Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.
Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."
Not like this one's much easier to talk about.
Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.
"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"
"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."
You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.
It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.
"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"
When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.
"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."
For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.
"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."
It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?
There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.
The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.
"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."
Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.
Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.
You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.
He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.
The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.
"Shit, Steve…"
He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.
He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.
"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"
"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.
If, you know, you were into that.
His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.
The two of you just have to survive this night first.
"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."
You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.
Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.
"Finish. The. Sentence."
You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.
"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"
"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."
Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.
"Bet you were this wet before you left."
Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."
"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."
"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."
Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.
"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."
"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.
"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."
Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."
The smug expression falters, "Too much?"
"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."
Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."
Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.
He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.
Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."
"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."
"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."
You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."
"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"
"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."
He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.
And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.
The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.
Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.
"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."
Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.
"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"
Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.
"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."
The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.
"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"
The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.
"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"
Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.
"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"
You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.
This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.
Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.
And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.
He's missed you. So, so much.
The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.
"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.
"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"
Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.
"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."
Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.
"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.
"I- I want it."
"Want… what?"
Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."
"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."
"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.
Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.
Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.
"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."
As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.
You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.
"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"
Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."
He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.
"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."
Steve blinks as the words sink in.
Oh.
"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."
"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"
He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.
"One step at a time, okay?"
He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.
Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.
Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.
"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.
Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.
"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.
In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."
Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.
Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.
"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"
You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.
Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.
Oh, no.
"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"
Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"
"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"
"Steve."
"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.
"Were you— oh my god."
"What?!"
A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"
"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.
The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."
He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.
Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"
"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."
"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"
"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."
Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.
You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.
It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.
A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.
Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.
It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.
By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.
Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.
He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.
Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.
"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"
The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.
"S'okay?"
"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.
"But?"
Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.
Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.
He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.
"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"
"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."
Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.
As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.
You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.
Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.
"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.
"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'
Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."
And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.
"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."
"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."
"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."
Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.
"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"
Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.
With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.
"You done talking logistics yet?"
Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.
That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.
No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.
"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."
"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.
Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in.
Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.
Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.
What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.
Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.
It tightens.
Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.
"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.
The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.
"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."
Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.
But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.
Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.
That plucks at his heartstrings, too.
"Steve?"
Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.
"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."
Baby.
Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.
Wait, did you say he was crying?
"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."
"Steve—"
"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."
"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."
"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."
Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.
"St—"
He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.
You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"
"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."
And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.
You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"
He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.
"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"
"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.
You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.
"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."
Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"
"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."
Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"
It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.
His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.
And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.
No one's like you. No one could even compare.
"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."
"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."
Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.
"Steve," you whine.
"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."
You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."
"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."
"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"
"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."
You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."
"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"
"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."
"Please… what?"
"Steve, I s- swear to god—"
"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."
"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.
He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.
"Such a what?"
"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"
Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.
"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.
The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same.
"I… Yours?"
Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.
"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"
Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.
"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.
He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.
"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"
"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you.
"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."
"Y- you."
Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.
"I'm right here."
Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.
The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.
And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.
"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.
It's only fair to match his energy.
"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."
He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.
No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.
"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."
Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.
Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.
God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.
"Fuck, you're unreal."
You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.
Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck
"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.
"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"
He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.
Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.
Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.
Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.
That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.
"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.
All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.
"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."
Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."
"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."
Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.
The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.
"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."
And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.
There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.
"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."
"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"
Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"
"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.
Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.
It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.
"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."
"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"
"Okay."
"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."
This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.
"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."
He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."
"Steve."
The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will.
a/n play this to set the mood or wtv...!! yall this my first time writing full on smut dont flame me
The argument had been building for days.
Not over anything real—not really. You'd been tired, short-tempered, snappish in ways you couldn't explain. He'd been patient at first, the way Aang always was, his calm voice and steady hands trying to soothe you. But even the Avatar has limits.
"You're not listening to me," you'd said, arms crossed, back turned. "I am listening. You're the one who keeps interrupting herself."
You'd spun around, fire in your eyes. "Don't get smart with me."
"I'm not getting smart. I'm stating a fact."
His jaw had tightened. That was when you knew you'd crossed a line—not because he looked angry, but because he went still. The way the air goes still before a storm.
there's silence.
"Y/N."
"You want to be factual? Fine. Fact: you've been gone for three weeks. Fact: you came back yesterday. Fact: you expect me to just—fall into your arms like nothing happened. Like I didn't spend twenty-one nights staring at the ceiling wondering if you were alive."
His expression had shifted. Something flickered behind his grey eyes—hurt, maybe, or guilt. But you were too angry to care.
"I can't do this right now," he'd said.
"Then don't." You'd grabbed your pillow. "Sleep on the couch."
You'd slammed the bedroom door behind you. Not locked it—you never locked it—but closed it hard enough to rattle the frame.
That was two minutes ago.
Now you're under him.
You'd fought him. Or at least tried to. For about half a second. Your hands had pushed at his chest, your teeth had nipped at his lower lip, your body had twisted in his grip. But he hadn't let go. He never let go.
Now you're on your stomach. Your hands are fisted in the sheets. Your back is arched—deep, obscene, the way he likes it. Your knees are spread wide on the mattress, and he's kneeling behind you, one hand on your hip, the other pressing your upper back down into the pillows.
His cock is at your entrance. Not inside yet, the head pressing against your slick folds, teasing.
"Look at you," he says. His voice is different now—lower, rougher, threaded with something that makes your thighs tremble. "All that fire two minutes ago. All that fight. And now you're arched for me like a good girl."
"Shut up."
He pushes in. Just the tip. You gasp.
"Mngh—"
"That's not shutting up."
He pushes deeper. You feel the stretch—the impossible, delicious stretch—and your fingers claw at the sheets.
"You're so tight," he murmurs. "Always so tight for me. Like your body knows what your mouth won't say."
"I hate you—ah—"
He thrusts. Hard. Bottoming out in one smooth motion, and you scream into the pillow.
"No, you don't."
"too big- s' too big-"
"come on...you've taken it before baby"
"s'different...you've been gone for so long.."
"I'm sorry," he says. His voice softens. Just a little. "I'm sorry I was gone so long. I'm sorry I didn't—"
"Don't—ngh—don't apologize while you're inside me—"
"Why not?"
"Because I can't—mmph—I can't be mad at you when you're—"
He pulls out. Almost all the way. Then slams back in.
"—when I'm what?"
You sob. "When you're fucking me like this—"
He does it again. Harder. The bed creaks. The headboard hits the wall. Your body jolts forward, and his hand presses down on your back, keeping you in place.
"Say it."
"I can't—ah—"
"Say it, Y/N."
You turn your head. Look at him over your shoulder. His grey eyes are dark, intense, fixed on your face. His arrow tattoos are faint against his skin—not glowing, not yet, but there's something simmering beneath the surface. Something that makes your stomach flip.
"I can't be mad at you when you're fucking me like you mean it."
He smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's cocky, a little mean, a little mocking—the kind of smile that makes you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.
"I always mean it."
"Prove it."
He does.
His hips snap against yours. Hard. Fast. Relentless. The sound of skin on skin fills the room—wet and obscene—and you bury your face in the pillow to muffle your screams.
"None of that." His hand tangles in your hair. Pulls. Your head lifts. "I want to hear you."
"Ngh… mmph… ah-"
He pulls out. Leaves you empty. You whine at the loss, your hips pushing back, searching for him
"mn..? aang—"
He pushes back in. One thrust. Deep. You cry out.
His hand reaches around. His palm cups your breast—full, round, soft—and he squeezes.
"So soft," he says. "So perfect. These tits are mine, aren't they?"
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"Yours—they're yours—"
He pinches your nipple. Rolls it between his fingers. You moan and push back against him, and he groans—low and guttural.
"You want more?"
"Please—"
"Please what."
"Please—harder—"
He gives you harder. His thrusts turn punishing. "I'm going to fill you up," he says. His voice is low, rough, almost a growl. "I'm going to fill you with my cum. With my babies. You want that?"
"Aang—"
"You want me to put a baby in you?"
"Yes—yes—please—"
"You want to be round with my child? Swollen and heavy and full?"
"I want it—I want it—"
"Tell me you're sorry."
"I'm sorry—"
"Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours—"
"Tell me you know who's fucking you right now."
"You—ah—Aang—"
"That's right."
You whine. High and desperate. "Ngh… Aang…"
"You wanted this." He pulls out almost all the way. Slams back in. "You ignored at me and yelled at me. You made me wait. You made me worry."
"I'm sorry—"
"You will be."
He fucks you. Hard. Deep. Ruthless. His hips slam against yours, and the bed creaks, and the headboard hits the wall, and you can't do anything but hold on and moan.
"Mmph! Ah… nnm… ngh…"
"Listen to you," he says. "So pathetic. So pretty. All those sounds you're making—"
"You're making me—ah—you're making me—"
"I'm here. I've got you baby."
He slows down. Pulls out almost all the way. Teases you with just the tip.
You sob.
"You're so mean—"
"You like it."
"I hate it—"
"You're dripping." His voice is low. Dark.
You are. You can feel it—the wetness sliding down your thighs, soaking the sheets, making everything slick and obscene.
"You're so—ah—so dirty—"
"You love it."
He fucks you. Hard. The way he fucks you when he's been gone too long and come home too late and found you waiting, angry and beautiful and so full of love you don't know what to do with it.
His hand leaves your hair. Slides down your spine. Grips your hip. His fingers dig into the soft flesh, hard enough to bruise, and you moan—loud and pathetic—and push back against him.
"So pretty like this," he murmurs. "Arched for me. Taking everything I give you. And you were so mad two minutes ago. So ready to fight."
"I'm still—ngh—still mad—"
"You don't feel mad."
"I am—ah—I am—"
He thrusts deeper. Angles his hips. Finds that spot inside you—the one that makes your vision go white, the one that steals your breath and your thoughts and your anger.
"Feel pretty fucking good for someone who's mad."
You can't answer. Your mouth is open, sounds spilling out—soft, desperate little noises that you'd be embarrassed about if you had any shame left.
"Ngh… mmph… ah…"
"I missed you," he says. His voice is softer now. The cockiness fading into something real. "I missed you every day. Every night. I thought about you—"
"Don't—"
"I thought about this. About coming home to you. About fucking you until you couldn't remember why you were mad."
"Jerk—"
"Mm. You love it."
He's not wrong.
He shifts your weight. Pulls you up, your back pressed to his chest. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you against him, and his other hand finds your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, his fingers curled around the column of your neck.
"You feel that?" he asks. His voice is right in your ear. "Feel how deep I am?"
You nod. Can't speak. His cock is inside you at an angle now—deeper than before, hitting places that make your toes curl and your eyes roll back.
"Tell me."
"I—I can't—"
"Tell me, Y/N."
"How am I supposed—ngh—how am I supposed to-hic- talk when I'm stuffed with 9 inches of your dick?"
He laughs. Genuinely laughs. The sound vibrates through his chest and into your back, and you feel it everywhere. His hand slides down from your throat to your breast. "You're so soft," he murmurs. "So warm. I dream about this. About you."
"I dream about you too—"
"Yeah?"
"Every night—"
"What do you dream about?"
You turn your head. Look at him. His grey eyes are soft now, the darkness fading into something tender. His arrow tattoos are glowing—just faintly, just at the edges, the way they do when he's close.
"This," you whisper. "I dream about this."
He kisses you. Deep and slow and sweet. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste yourself on his lips, and you moan into his mouth.
"I love you," he says.
"I love you too."
"I'm sorry I was gone."
"I know."
"I'm sorry I made you wait."
"I know."
"I'm close," he says. His hips stuttering.
"Me too—"
"Come with me."
"I—"
"Now."
You come apart.
Your body convulses. Your inner walls clamp down on him, squeezing, pulsing. You scream into the pillow—his name, just his name—and your vision goes white, and your ears ring, and you feel everything and nothing all at once.
He follows. His hips stutter. His grip tightens on your hip. And he tattoos glows for a hot second before he spills inside you.
"Aang—"
"Fuck—"
He groans. Low and rough. His head falls back. His body trembles against yours.
You've never heard him curse before. Not like that. Not with that raw, broken edge.
He collapses beside you. Pulls you into his arms. Your back presses to his chest, and his face buries in your hair, and his arms wrap around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
------------
i was writing this and accidentally deleted the best part of the fic n i cant remember it at all...END ME.
Hey guys! Long time no see lol. A lot has happened in my life, but I've rediscovered my love for writing. I have an exam at university this Wednesday, but I want to get back to writing.
I've been watching edits on TikTok of the new leaked Avatar movie, and I fell in love with the visuals and practically everything about it! (although I want to wait to see it in theaters)
I'll be writing a Sokka fanfic that I can't get out of my head (small spoiler: Sokka x Firebender! Reader also Zuko's sister <33)
I'd like to remind you again that English isn't my first language, so constructive criticism is welcome lol. I'll also be writing about Zuko, Aang, Toph, and Katara <3
As the youngest of Fire Lord Ozai's three children, your life was a bit complicated.
After your mother's banishment, Ozai decided that nothing else would escape his control, including his children.
Your older sister was patient with you, but she had a habit of deciding how far your training could go, even when your body gave way to her.
Then there was your brother Zuko, who had a soft spot for you, but he also decided for you what risks you could take.
Life in the Fire Nation wasn't as cruel to you as it was to your siblings. Free from obligations, you could live a life of luxury and rigorous training. But the control your family exerted over you was more suffocating.
Seeking to free yourself from the palace, your brothers and your father, you encounter a peculiar group of children your age.
What will you do when a helping hand offers to free you from your gilded cage, to live a life without the pressure of your family extinguishing your fire? .
︶ ⏝ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ⏝ ︶
"What's stopping you from leaving? Or are you just too good for our group? Firebending isn't as cool as you think."
"Yes, maybe you're right, but it's better than nobending at all."
"Ouch, sparkling flame, you know how to strike a man's pride"
"I would say a child's pride"
"Shut up, Toph!"
︶ ⏝ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ⏝ ︶
SET DURING:
First chapter: Avatar: The Last Airbending.
Second chapter: Avatar: The Last Airbender.
A quick clarification: the first chapter will be a short backstory about the characters. The second chapter will delve deeper into their adult relationship.
As the youngest of Fire Lord Ozai's three children, your life was a bit complicated.
After your mother's banishment, Ozai decided that nothing else would escape his control, including his children.
Your older sister was patient with you, but she had a habit of deciding how far your training could go, even when your body gave way to her.
Then there was your brother Zuko, who had a soft spot for you, but he also decided for you what risks you could take.
Life in the Fire Nation wasn't as cruel to you as it was to your siblings. Free from obligations, you could live a life of luxury and rigorous training. But the control your family exerted over you was more suffocating.
Seeking to free yourself from the palace, your siblings and your father, you encounter a peculiar group of children your age.
What will you do when a helping hand offers to free you from your gilded cage, to live a life without the pressure of your family extinguishing your fire? .
︶ ⏝ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ⏝ ︶
"What's stopping you from leaving? Or are you just too good for our group? Firebending isn't as cool as you think."
"Yes, maybe you're right, but it's better than nobending at all."
"Ouch, sparkling flame, you know how to strike a man's pride"
"I would say a child's pride"
"Shut up, Toph!"
︶ ⏝ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ⏝ ︶
SET DURING:
First chapter: Avatar: The Last Airbending.
Second chapter: Avatar: The Last Airbender.
A quick clarification: the first chapter will be a short backstory about the characters. The second chapter will delve deeper into their adult relationship.
