daisy : 20 : fanfiction writer
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For one reason or another, Tom can’t or won’t do the scene and only tells the director a couple of days in advance so the director is scrambling to find a replacement. Who could he find in such short notice that had the same physique, hair and general face as Tom? Well, who better to ask than Tom’s stunt double.
You’re elated at this news, of couse. Who wouldn’t want to pretend to have sex with Colt Seavers?
The day of the shoot, Colt wanders onto set looking as cool as a cucumber, maybe even giddy. He doesn’t seem nervous at all for a guy who’s never filmed a sex scene before, listening intently to the intimacy coordinator with you and nodding as she goes over how the scene will play out.
When you’re laying in the bed, Colt slotted between your legs and every bit of him looming over you, you half wished you could wave off the camera crew standing a stones throw away, tear off the tight shorts the two of you were wearing and do everything for real.
A thin sheet was draped over Colt’s hips, hiding everything below from view. The scene only called for glimpses of his back, and shots of the both of you from the side- just enough content for a minute long clip in the film.
Judging by his barely repressed smile, Colt was having a great time.
When lights were dimmed and action was called, Colt’s mouth sealed over yours.
It almost felt real.
No sex scene you’d ever been a part of had felt so genuine. Despite never acting in such a capacity before, Colt sure did a remarkable job. His lips were so tender and full of emotion that didn’t have to be said, muscular arms caging your head and hand brushing over your hair.
The stuntman acted the scene just as he’d been instructed to, but he seemed to be putting his whole back into it. Quite literally.
Colt’s hips gyrated against yours, back muscles rippling underneath your fingers. Alternating between gentle thrusts and firm ones, he simulated just what he’d normally do behind closed doors.
While the sheet covering the both of you hid almost everything from the crew and cameras, it didn’t hide anything from you.
Colt had an erection. Prominent even under the specialized skintight shorts you’d been given. Since you had your legs bracketing his waist in order for the camera to be able to see them under the sheet, Colt was rutting his cock right into your clothed pussy.
Technically, Colt was only supposed to pretend to be touching you. Since no one could see, he didn’t actually have to brush any part of your sex with his, as long as it was believable for the camera. He’d either forgotten that tidbit of instruction or decided to ignore it. You weren’t complaining.
Your whimpers were real when his face hid in your neck to nibble against your pulse. The brush of warm air from his nose had you throbbing.
The director told Colt to keep his face as hidden as possible to save the CGI team time and the studio money. Colt’s face would have to be swapped for Tom’s post-production so having his face exposed as little as possible would be helpful. You helped them further by burying your hands in his dirty blonde hair, blocking as much of his face as you could with your arms and silently asking him to keep his face where it was because it felt too damn good.
The team of people watching decided they had enough footage far too early for your liking. You wanted Colt to grind into you more. You wanted to taste him and actually feel what was hiding between his legs against you.
Colt feined an excuse to lay there a while as he talked to the director, asking them if they wanted this or that redone. Maybe it was an excuse to stay over top of you. It could’ve also just been a ruse so he had enough time to calm his boner that everyone would see the second he stood up.
You missed the heat of his muscled chest when he eventually slid off of you. The intimacy coordinator rushed over with robes and spewing praise for doing the whole thing in one take.
“Maybe you should take up acting instead of just being a stuntman, Colt. That almost looked real!”
summary: your heart-to-heart with rocky leads to a lot of unnecessary teasing targeted towards grace. you can't help it—he just makes it so easy (based on this textpost // @viviennejinx!)
pairing: ryland grace x gn!reader
word count: 4.3k
tags: fluff and humor, not actually unrequited love, mutual pining, bad flirting, basically teasing to death, flustered!grace, developing relationship, platonic!rocky x reader, first kisses, gn!reader
cross-posted to ao3
Grace is off in the crew quarters trying to take a nap. He’s been all tuckered out, you think, since Rocky decided to start co-habitating with the two of you on the Mary. Though it’s probably the most efficient way to work altogether—instead of moving to and from the midpoint of your ship and Rocky’s—it’s clearly driving Grace crazy. Boundaries, he keeps telling Rocky, There’s a delicate line that’s being crossed. More than crossed. Hopped and skipped. And still, Rocky’s insistent on moving in. You don’t have any major objections, considering that Rocky is a positive change to your usual routine.
It isn’t the most convenient arrangement in the world, but Rocky is having you lug xenonite boxes and panes of glass into the Hail Mary from the connector tunnel. You have to wait a half an hour each for the materials to cool down before you can pick them up, so there’s a whole lot of get-to-know you time. After the first batch of belongings, Rocky is sure to ask you about the basics—what Earth is like, what humans are like, and your expertise on the project. The second batch is exponentially more personal. Rocky asks about how you came to be on the ship, where on Earth you belong to, and if you miss your loved ones.
And, on the third and last batch, you and Rocky are sitting in the connector tunnel on a pile of empty storage crates, effectively repurposed into seating. It’ll be a short break, now, for you to catch your breath. You’re trying to get a good stretch out of your arms and legs as you sit on the slanted crate. You’re certainly expecting to be sore after all the strenuous labor of carrying Rocky’s things. Meanwhile, Rocky is rolling back and forth, back and forth—still testing out the mobility on his new xenonite ball. He seems pleased with the development. Or, bored. You can never tell what he’s thinking when he gets all roll-y. It only becomes apparent here when he decides to ask you: “Is Grace mate, question?”
“Wow. Presumptuous,” you punch out. It’s a nice shock to your senses, the forwardness of Rocky’s inquiry. It’s not like you haven’t thought about it, but obviously, it seems that Rocky’s confident that he’s got it all figured out. “Where are you getting that from?”
“Grace make all effort to do bad science jokes. Is baaad.” Rocky says. “But laugh like Grace mate.”
“That could just be me being polite,” you test. “It’s really important for morale, you know, laughing.”
Rocky pauses for a moment, stilled in his xenonite casing. Then, he tries again: “Is it same for heart rate too, question?” He chirps in a repetitive manner, something akin to a chuckle. There’s not much you can do to disprove the physiological facts. Rocky’s as clever as you’d expect—and it isn’t like you’re trying to conceal the nature of your relationship with Grace.
What you’ve got with him is neither here nor there. It’s perfectly middle-ground, and really, you're satisfied with it. Grace is a decent roommate; he’s observant—knows what ticks you off, what pleases you, avoids the former and tries for the latter. You can already tell that he’s a little bit sweet on you, just by the way that he looks at you with soft blue eyes—corners of his eyes crinkling as he busies his hands with whatever prop he decides to pick up. Glass beakers, microscopes, xenonite models, you name it. It’s always the same.
And you’re always staring at him with your chin propped up on your palm, at once amused and enamored. You’d known you would feel a certain way about Grace ever since you’d both woken up on the Hail Mary. You’re attracted to him, of course, but there’s also something else. Even without a whole memory, your mind lingers on him longer than need be. It’s something like love, if not exactly that. “Well, we haven’t talked about it, but we’re as good as mates,” you decide to tell Rocky.
“Is unclear,” he mumbles. Aloud, it does sound like very strange terms to be referring to the current circumstances. A very human arrangement, you think. Rocky concurs with a stamp of his arm down on the plated floor.
“We live together, we eat together. I can tell I want to kiss him and he wants to kiss me,” you list off, counting on one hand. “We cohabitate in the same space like two mates would, but we haven’t had the opportunity to… have it out. It’s mission-first thinking.”
Rocky begins to roll towards a batch of glass propped up on the wall, a wordless sign for you to pick it up for him. Break’s over. Begrudgingly, you follow along, lifting the trapezoidal glass pane up with both arms. As you swing it into a more secure grip, he seems to speak more softly. “More Eridian than human.”
“Who? Me?” you say half-heartedly, still very focused toward your grip on the xenonite glass. It’s more difficult for you than it is for Rocky to carry the whole thing through the hatch door of the Hail Mary. Still, it sounds like a high compliment.
“Yes. Is Eridian thinking to view Grace in definite terms. Grace as mate, inevitable. Is beautiful!” Rocky raises a claw up, wiggling his little rugged fingers in a gentle sweep across the empty space in front of him. It’s reassuring, certainly, that Rocky views you in high regard. Even though you’re breaking a sweat trying to carry this weighted pane for your new shipmate, you still make a concerted effort to give him a wide grin.
“Thanks, Rocky.”
—
There’s a good mood going between you and Rocky after all the talking. Grace picks up on it quickly after his long nap, when he sees the both of you huddled in the lab working on one of the larger dry-erase boards. There’s a bunch of calculations scrawled neatly in black across the whole white surface, alongside a larger diagram of the ship’s engines. While he’s been sleeping, it’s clear the two of you have been wading through the more complex engineering issues. Hearing Grace’s footsteps approach, you turn to face him over your shoulder with a grin, “Morning.”
Grace looks straight out of bed, with his punny tee and his sweatpants—blonde hair sticking up in random directions. He seems to be stretching his back out as you greet him, eyelids heavy. “It seems like someone ignored the memo to pack light,” Grace grumbles, nudging his mug towards the corridor behind him. The stack of xenonite crates and glass you two amassed is generous, to say the least.
“Hey, I’m just the mover,” you hum, “You’re gonna have to take it up with the big guy.” You jut your index finger out towards Rocky, who’s tapping one side claw against the glass.
He merely buzzes, “Rocky need equipment to save Earth Erid stars. Don’t mind.” He rolls closer to the center of the room to get a better scan of the corridor, before returning to your side at the white board. “Same volume of mess as before Rocky arrival.” Rude. When you look back over at Grace, he doesn’t seem to have any major objections. It is true; the two of you were maybe a little bit slobbish before Rocky came along.
The three of you seem to fall back into routine easily. Grace is still trying to wake himself up with generous gulps of black coffee. You and Rocky continue on with your calculations and diagram. You’re trying your best to stay focused on the work—but the two of you have been working on these problems for the past hour and now, Grace is in front of you with his entirely sleep-ridden appearance. He just looks… perfect. And, out of the blue, Rocky shoots out an abrupt: “Why choose Grace for mate, question?” There’s a clatter to your left. Grace’s grip loosens on the handle of his mug, a sizable drop of coffee splashing onto the steel counter beside you both. He decides, at once, to place the mug down and away from himself, before wiping the mess up with the sleeve of his navy-blue hoodie.
Grace sputters, “What? Mate—we're not—that would require at least kind of—" He’s speaking so intermittently that he can barely get a full sentence out. You raise a brow just watching Grace mesh his hands together, fingers interlocking and coming apart. He’s not making it any better for himself.
The wide-eyed look that you give Rocky isn’t nearly as mortified as Grace’s. While it’s accompanied by shock, you’re very intrigued by the nature of Rocky’s question. You have no idea what he’s shooting for, but it’s clearly working. Grace is talking to himself, dazed as he fixates on soaking the coffee up with his sleeve. Rocky stays silent in his xenonite casing. He’s anticipating an answer out of you, and so you’re going to have to give it to him. With a rather astute tone, analytical in nature, you offer up, “Well, he’s passionate. That’s a plus.”
Grace’s brows furrow together. “Sorry?” He’s floored. You can’t possibly be talking about him, but Rocky’s asking and you’re answering. It’s really not adding up. Grace is looking at you over the frame of his glasses, eyes squinted in perplexity.
“The molecular biology, the teaching,” you note, “Gold stars all around.”
“Dedication valuable for Earth mate selection,” Rocky nods along. It isn’t anything he doesn’t already know. While Grace has been asleep and the two of you have gotten to talking, Rocky knows practically all the minute details of why you’ve “chosen” Grace. The point of hashing it out in front of him now is unclear—aside from the potential entertainment value. That makes sense.
“Okay. He learned humor while I was napping. I’m not offended at all.” Though he tries to laugh it off, Grace doesn’t sound at all sure of himself. He’s very close to pacing back and forth, not sure whether he should try to change out of his now coffee-soaked hoodie or question the two of you further. When you and Rocky turn straight back to work unaffected, you at the front of the board and him tracing his claw across the glass with a sort of contemplative silence, Grace is shell-shocked. He’s muttering under his breath, “I don’t think I get the joke.” Both of your backs are turned to Grace; he can’t see the growing smirk that’s cropping up on your face.
It’s a quick pivot back to work. “I have a feeling that we should make a few minor adjustments to the rear fuselage. There’s going to be a lot of strain on engines when we get to Tau Ceti-E.” You click your tongue, circling the lower right quadrant of the diagram in a red dry-erase ink. Once your little annotation is completed, you tuck the marker in your back pocket.
“Agree, agree, agree,” Rocky tips his body towards the white board. His texture monitor is showing a complex, grayscale copy of the board to a T. It’s as if neither of you have tried to tease Grace to death just seconds prior. He’s glued to the ground with a weary kind of expression on his face. Grace is frowning, truly and deeply, with his palm squeezing the back of his neck. You could almost feel bad if you weren’t so pleased to see Grace like this; rarely is he speechless.
A few minutes pass. Then, Rocky approaches the same question from a different vantage point. “Grace attractive by human standard, question?”
“Well, he's handsome by my standard, and I’m pretty sure a lot of humans would agree,” you admit. “He is a bit dorky, but I like ‘em that way. That’s preference, though. Not all humans are into dorky.”
Rocky returns your statement with a rushed out, “Yes, yes, yes—preference. Understand.”
“Okay. Hello?” Grace speaks outward towards the lab. His voice carries throughout the hull of the ship, and the two of you are still non-reactive. “We’re doing it again. I am in the room.” His old teacher’s voice is coming out again—one hand shot up in the air, trying to flag your attention.
You look at him over your shoulder with a soft “What was that, Ry?” You’re very pleased to see that his cheeks are glowing red underneath the white-gold frames of his glasses. You drag your gaze up and down his raised arm, with a particularly sharp grin hanging off your face. So toned. “Didn’t hear you,” you tilt your head. Grace lowers his arm slowly, turning back around to pick up his mug.
“Ha-ha,” Grace punches out. He’s trying to seem unbothered by this whole situation, but it really is bothering him. No matter how hard he’s trying to maintain his composure, Grace is flushed. You can practically see the steam rising off the top of his head. It’s an illogical conversation playing out in front of him and the effort’s no use. You and Rocky are absolutely impossible. “I’m going to go for a metaphorical breath of fresh air. I will… see you both shortly.” Grace is too nervous to push it any further, and it seems like he’s leaving you both to do a cool-off lap around the ship.
You can hear him talking to himself as he leaves the lab, as if possessed by his own confusion. “Handsome…? Is it April Fool’s? Mary, can you pull up a UTC calendar for me, please? What month is it back home?” Louder, the ship’s computer rings out a staticky, “The month is: June.” Grace’s muffled groan rings out towards the two of you..
You turn towards Rocky with a slow shake of your head. “You’re really mean. Did you know that?” you ask Rocky. He pushes closer to you. Like you’re any better.
“Grace not know you are mates when obvious. Grace fault,” Rocky says, with both claws pointed in the air. You think it’s supposed to be a sort of shrug.
—
After Grace’s little cooldown period, he’s back on his feet and wanting to teach you how to sample astrophage. Even though you’ll both be out there at the same time, spacewalking side by side, he wants you to be prepared. It’s best that you both know how to handle the equipment. You’re not completely convinced that he’s over your little bit with Rocky earlier, but he seems altogether unoffended enough to talk to you. While you and Grace are running through the sampler together, Rocky’s not far away. He sits in the corridor, sifting through his things—no doubt listening to the two of you working together.
Grace's fingers trace over the orange lining of the box before he slides it towards you. “You’re going to have this whole sampler rig attached to your suit. It’s supposed to be portable, so it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle for us to bring it out and set it up on the topside of the deck,” he explains. You’re nodding along; something tells you that you’ve heard this entire lecture before—that Grace is using the words that he might’ve before your launch—but it’s altogether pointless to point it out now.
You’re watching as his hands surround either side of the sampler; he pulls out, simultaneously, two metal grated plates. “Okay. These plates are supposed to intake the astrophage going towards Tau Ceti-E.” Grace closes the one set and opens another. “And these are supposed to grab the astrophage that’s leaving. We’ll grab input first. Then, output.”
Mindlessly, Grace grabs the off-white masking tape off the counter beside you, nearly brushing your waist; he tries to ignore the minimal contact, pressing the bar of tape onto the first set of plates. Then, the second. Grace discards the roll on the counter, before picking the dry-erase marker out of your pocket and presses it into the palm of your dominant hand. Grace flinches as his fingertips graze the surface of your palm. He’s still trying to keep a fair distance after your little debacle with Rocky earlier, but he just can’t help it.
“You want me to label it?” you laugh.
“It’s lab standard,” he insists. “If we mix them up, we’ll have to sample all over again—and that would mean we’d have to clean the plates. And if we do that poorly…” Grace makes a big show of making a miniature explosion with his hands. It’s difficult not to scoff at him. You know it’s lab standard, but he could easily label them himself. The apprehension worn on your face makes Grace sigh. You’re able to read him too easily, and he surrenders over, “And I like your handwriting more than I like mine.”
There—the root of the issue. You shake your head, “You’re a teacher, Grace. Legibility is, like, a job requirement.”
“If that were true, the staff at Grover Cleveland Middle would’ve been chopped in half,” he chuckles. As far as you’ve seen, his handwriting isn’t bad at all. To each their own, you suppose. You lean down to write on the open panels of the sampler, Grace watching carefully over your shoulder.
“See? This is part of the mating ritual, too, Rock.” It barely comes out as a whisper as you’re writing down “a1. input” and “a2. output” neatly across the tape for either panel. It’s sarcasm really, but you realize much too late that Rocky might not interpret it as such. Grace, somehow, is much more occupied at watching over your labeling technique; he murmurs back a distracted “Hm?” before furrowing his brows. He stands straight up, eyebrows furrowed. It might have taken a second to register, but Grace is fully aware of what you’ve said—
And suddenly, Rocky is practically shouting down the corridor with a hurried, “wait, wait wait!” You can hear the successive rapid thunks of him sliding into his xenonite ball, sealing it, and rolling back towards the both of you. The Eridian practically comes barreling in through the doorway, running into the white metal shelves of the Hail Mary with a childlike ardor. “Is initiating kiss, question?”
“Again?” Grace groans, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. When he lowers his hand, you can see the blush spreading across his face, from the tips of his ears to his cheeks. “Okay. That’s it,” Grace huffs. “This has to end now. No more bits.”
“Graaace. Do not be mad,” Rocky whines in a low tone, “Is only kiss. Partial threshold for human relations.” Grace is tugging his hoodie off in a desperate attempt to keep a regular temperature. There’s a shelf hook close enough for him to toss up the garment haphazardly. Once it’s out of the way, he turns toward Rocky.
“You didn’t even know that word an hour ago.” Grace’s voice raises in tone and volume all at once, crackling with embarrassment. It’s unintentionally accusatory. Grace certainly didn’t code in <kiss>, and it’s not like Rocky can type into his own vocabulary bank. And Grace can’t seem to figure out why you’d code it aside from entertainment value.
“Kiss not bad word, Grace. Is normal,” Rocky explains calmly. “Now, do kiss. Please.” The begging tone that Rocky dishes out to Grace only makes him more and more impatient. Meanwhile, you’re simply watching the two of them bicker with one another—not interested in the slightest to stop the argument. Shamefully, you do want Grace to be pushed to his limit. And this happens much quicker than you would anticipate. Right about now, Grace has his hands locked together and resting just over his head. His face is still flushed, and he’s got his glasses hanging off his face.
Grace is trying to stay as calm as he can and failing. Every time the word is used, he’s getting deeply distracted by the thought of your lips on his. He can’t help the way his mind drifts to that very, very vivid fantasy of your hands balancing flat on his chest. Finally, he breathes out a heavy and burdened sigh: “No more kiss talk. We aren’t together, end of story.”
“I mean, we kind of are,” you say to Grace, who turns sharply mid-speaking to tilt his head at you.
“What?” he stammers softly. You’re not helping his case, especially with that tone.
Hands held behind your back, you repeat for Grace, “We are.” It's a matter of fact. Any semblance of sternness Grace was attempting prior crumbles at the drop of a dime. He’s pointing at you with his index finger, then at himself, then you again. “No, we’re not.”
You grab for Grace’s wrist, just over the red-band of his wristwatch. “Okay. Come on, we’re going up to screens.” Grace, still stunned, lets you drag him out of the lab and towards the corridor. As you look over your shoulder, you can see that Rocky is shooting you a strong thumbs-down.
—
The empty, numbered panels of the projection deck flicker to life into the backdrop of the river Seine. You’ve asked Mary to put on music—really, anything would do—and she decides to ring out some folk-rock song that you’ve never heard before. Something older, not too much ruckus when played loud. It’s a decent way to guarantee yourself a bit of privacy with your new, sound-attuned roommate. You’ll be lucky if Rocky can’t hear the two of you finally having this talk. Over the sound of the soft strumming guitars, you stretch your shoulders back. “I might have had a bit too fun teasing you. Sorry.”
“Well, I thought you were just… doing a bit. Like, ha-ha, ‘Ryland Grace dies alone in space,’” Grace mumbles. “Is it still a bit? You’re sending a whole lot of signals, and I don’t think I’m receiving—” Grace seems to quiet down as soon as you plant your hand down on his chest. He’s tracing his eyes from your hand, down your arm, and straight up to your face with his lips parted. “Or, I am receiving. A little bit.”
“Okay,” you decide, “You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? I have. We’ve been living together for the equivalent of… what, a few months now? I’m comfortable with you, and you’re comfortable with me. It’s been like that ever since we got sent up. Maybe even before. I don’t remember. But we like each other.” Your fingers are dancing soft on his chest, and his breath is hitching.
“We?” Grace echoes. “I was under the impression that you were, you know, kind of uninterested in me. Besides, you know, as a co-habitant. Mission-wise, it’s crucial for us to get along.” He’s clueless, clearly, because it hasn’t been like that at all—for you, at least.
You’re trying to stir up another line of reasoning for him. You have to meet Grace at his level. “There’s the, uh, Einstein quote. I know you know it, just… let me think.” You massage your temples with your fingers, trying to wrack your brain for it. It’s perfect. What is it, again?
It’s easy for Grace—the middle-school science teacher that he is—to pick up what you’re putting down. "When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, you think it's only a minute. But when you sit on a hot stove for a minute, you think it's two hours. That's relativity,” Grace nods, “But that’s a very crude explanation of the concept, and I don’t really—”
You shush him with a shake of your head. “Right. Eridians don’t have a conception of relativity. It isn’t necessary for them, because things are just… what they are. They’re literal and exact, and there isn’t any dancing around the facts.” you explain to Grace hurriedly. “So… you’re my boyfriend. You’ve been my boyfriend.”
It takes a moment for him to process your argument. It’s very… forward. He seems to look past you towards one of the panel-screens. The projected river is still glittering behind you, and you’re not going anywhere. Mary even put in the effort of mixing this ambient watery sound—boats and people, back on Earth whenever ago—with the music track. Somehow, your traveling abode in space has made the absolute perfect atmosphere for this. You and Grace.
“Well, that’s just…” Grace nods slowly, “peachy.” He drops his head down in absolute disappointment of his own incapability to speak. What is he saying?
“Peachy?” you repeat quietly. You’re astounded that that’s the choice of word he’s selected for this entire ordeal. It’s so like him. You can feel yourself shuddering out a breath. Your cheeks are already sore enough as is—and you don’t think you can take another hard laugh.
“Don’t,” Grace says, “I have had a long and emotionally tumultuous couple of hours.”
“Are you mad about the teasing?” you ask, stepping closer to Grace. He’s barely paying attention, eyes glazed-over in a dazed fashion. He’s having trouble focusing on your words. Too occupied with you.
“No. Never,” he murmurs, eyebrows knitted together. You’re reaching for Grace next, hands swinging around his neck in an effort to pull him in. He’s fumbling with his hands, unsure exactly where to place them. They’re steady only when they find grounding on your midsection. You give him one peck on the lips. Then, another. He leans into the contact, the rims of your glasses brushing against the surface of your cheeks. It’s casual, comfortable—as if it’s not the first time. You’re his, and he’s yours. It’s effortless. Grace seems to finally ease up.
There’s a few loud thuds down the hall—presumably, your Eridian counterpart. The folk-rock is no use. Rocky has obviously been listening through the entirety of your back-and-forth. “Finally, Grace act like real mate. Congratulate, congratulate, congratulate.” His voice rings out loudly towards the projection deck. Grace is muttering under his breath again, something about those boundaries. At least now, you’re both on the same page.
GAH I LOVE THIS SO SO SO MUCH!! what i wouldn't give to be able to tease the absolute SHIT out of ryland alongside rocky because id kill to see him lose his mind but be utterly flustered because of it
warnings : visit to the principal's office; split lip; school fight; fake wife; sexist comments; emotionally unstable adults; criticism of parenting
note : You wanted to help Holly at school, it turned out to be a disaster
a/n : A thought occurred to me. And then it happened.
[Ryland Grace masterlist][main masterlist]
The principal’s office was washed in late afternoon sunlight. Behind a desk buried under stacks of paperwork sat a middle-aged man who already looked like he regretted being involved in any of this.
You sat across from him beside Holly. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her expression caught somewhere between fear and defiance. When she’d called you earlier, she’d said, “It’s not a big deal,” which honestly should’ve worried you immediately.
Your eyes drifted to the other man in the room. Expensive suit. Perfectly trimmed mustache. Beside him sat a boy with a split lip and the kind of smug expression that made your teeth grind.
The principal sighed heavily. “So,” he began carefully, “I think we can discuss this calmly. Like responsible adults.”
“Calmly?” the suited man interrupted sharply, glaring at you. “Your daughter assaulted my son.”
Holly shifted beside you and muttered under her breath, “He deserved it.”
“Holly,” you said quietly, touching her shoulder.
The man scoffed loudly. “See? That’s exactly the problem. No discipline. No respect. Girls like her practically invite trouble, and then act shocked when it finds them. Someone should teach her consequences.”
You felt Holly tense beside you.
The principal cleared his throat nervously. “Mr. Patterson…”
“No,” you interrupted smoothly, your voice calm. “I’d really love to hear this. What exactly did your son do before she hit him?”
The boy avoided eye contact immediately, but his father inhaled deeply. “That’s irrelevant. A young lady should never behave like that. We’re not animals.”
“Young lady,” you repeated flatly.
Holly shot you a quick glance. She knew that tone.
Mr. Patterson leaned back comfortably in his chair. “If she were my daughter, she would’ve learned respect a long time ago.”
You studied him carefully. Every word out of his mouth sounded like a countdown to disaster.
“Please,” you said softly. “Go on.”
“I’m saying girls need structure. Hierarchy. A firm hand. It’s obvious she doesn’t have a father around willing to handle that properly.”
Holly lifted her head, ready to speak, but you were faster.
“Careful, Mr. Patterson. I’d choose your next words very wisely.”
The principal rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Please, everyone, this really isn’t necessary.”
“No!” Patterson snapped, his cheeks turning red. “Modern women think they can raise children alone, and then they’re shocked when those children turn into little criminals!”
“Your son called her a slut!” you shot back.
Silence crashed over the room. The only sounds left were the hum of the fan and faint typing somewhere outside the office.
“I didn’t say that,” the boy muttered without looking up.
“Oh, yes you did,” Holly snapped. “And you tried to yank my backpack away from me.”
His father waved a dismissive hand. “Boys tease girls. That’s normal at their age. She’s oversensitive.”
“She hit him because he wouldn’t let her go,” you replied coldly.
“She hit him because nobody taught her how to behave!”
“And nobody taught your son to keep his hands to himself!”
Mr. Patterson stood abruptly. “Excuse me?”
You stood too. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. You’re not nearly intimidating enough for me to be afraid of you.”
“Ma’am…” the principal tried weakly.
“No. This man does not get to sit here pretending his son is innocent while blaming Holly for defending herself.”
“She attacked him!”
“He was harassing her!”
“She’s unstable! Just like her mother!”
“At least she’s not being raised into a future predator.”
“Okay!” the principal slammed a hand against the desk as he rose to his feet. Silence fell again.
Holly stared at you with a mix of horror and admiration. The principal looked like he’d aged five years in the last ten minutes and deeply regretted inviting any of you into his office.
He opened his mouth to speak, probably to desperately salvage the situation, when sudden commotion erupted in the front office.
“Sir, please wait, you can’t go in there right now!” the secretary called out.
“That’s my daughter in there,” a familiar voice answered sharply, “and I’m about to be in there too.”
You and Holly looked at each other instantly.
“Oh my God,” you whispered, staring at the door in alarm.
A second later it burst open. Every head turned.
Holland March looked furious. Or worse, he looked furious and completely in control of it. His tie sat crooked like he’d put it on while driving over here, his hair slightly messy. The second he entered, his eyes locked onto Holly.
“You okay?” She nodded immediately. Then his gaze flicked to you. “And you?”
“Mostly.”
His jaw tightened.
The principal straightened up quickly, scrambling to regain authority. “Mr. March. I’m very glad Ms. Smith finally managed to reach you. We gathered here today to…”
“Who,” Holland interrupted calmly, “called my daughter a slut?”
The principal froze. Even you didn’t dare speak. Holly visibly sank lower in her chair.
Mr. Patterson finally recovered enough to sneer, “Your daughter assaulted my son.”
Holland looked at the boy, nodded once, and said, “She should’ve hit him harder.”
“Holland!” you hissed.
“What?” he said defensively. “I’m right.”
“Mr. March…” the principal tried again.
Patterson scoffed loudly. “Your daughter is violent because neither of you know how to parent properly.”
Holland studied him carefully. Then he smiled. Softly. Dangerously. “Oh, buddy…” he said gently. “You picked the wrong damn family today.”
The man swallowed hard. Sweat gathered at his temples as his fingers tightened around the arms of his chair. “Maybe if you controlled your woman instead of letting her run her mouth,” Patterson spat, “your household wouldn’t be such a disaster.”
The principal groaned quietly and dropped back into his chair, covering his face with both hands.
“Holland…” you whispered, grabbing his arm. “Please.”
“No, sweetheart,” he said calmly. “Let him finish.”
Patterson crossed his arms. “Your wife has disrespected everyone in this room. You should teach her some manners. She barged in here like a damn wild animal, insulting everybody, refusing to listen, that kid clearly takes after her.”
Holland looked at you then. There was no anger in his expression. No disappointment. Quite the opposite. He’d seen the way you defended Holly without hesitation. He knew you would tear the world apart for that girl if you had to.
“You know what, Mr. Patterson?” Holland said lightly. “She could handle you just fine without me here. We’re only trying to save the principal some extra paperwork.” His voice stayed calm, almost amused. “Honestly, I mostly stopped you from ending up looking like your son.”
“Holland…”
“What?” he asked innocently. “I’m not lying.”
Then he looked back at Patterson and his son for the final blow. “If you ever touch my daughter again, she’s gonna break your nose. I’ll personally make sure she knows how.” He pointed at Patterson next and nodded at you. “And if you ever speak to her like that again, she’ll break yours too. Understood?”
Holly shifted awkwardly in her chair. Then Holland glanced at her.
“You’re grounded.”
“Dad!” she groaned.
Holland looked back toward the principal, adjusted his tie slightly, and smiled politely. “So. We done here?”
The man nodded helplessly. He clearly had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do anymore. Without another word, you grabbed Holly by the arm and walked out into the hallway. None of you spoke until you reached the parking lot outside. The second the warm sunlight hit her face, Holly grinned.
“That was AWESOME. Patterson was literally about to piss himself.”
“You’re still grounded,” Holland muttered. “Get in the car.”
Holly rolled her eyes dramatically and shuffled toward dad’s car. Holland turned toward you then, his expression difficult to read.
“You know,” he said slowly, “I was pretty surprised when the school called and said my daughter and my wife were sitting in the principal’s office.”
You sighed. “I never told them I was your wife. I was trying to handle this calmly, but that guy…”
“If you hadn’t shown up, she would’ve ripped that man into tiny little pieces!” Holly yelled from the car window.
“That is not true!”
“I saw your face,” Holland murmured, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Honestly, I think I saved his life.”
“She liked threatening him,” Holly added smugly.
“I like watching idiots get what’s coming to them,” Holland corrected immediately.
Holly gasped dramatically. “Is this your foreplay? Because if it is, I want to be adopted.”
“HOLLY!” both of you shouted at once.
She slumped back into the passenger seat. “I’m just saying…”
You pulled your keys from your pocket, glancing toward your own car before looking back at Holland. He’d just lit a cigarette.
“You know…” you started quietly, flicking a glance toward Holly to make sure she wasn’t listening. “The way you walked in there. The way you looked at me…”
“Hm?”
“That was hot.”
His eyebrows lifted instantly, eyes gleaming. “Oh? Really?”
“Yeah. Watching you defend us. Watching you shut that guy down…”
He laughed softly, smoke curling from his lips. “I was barely holding it together. Internally, I was emotional Jell-O.”
You stepped closer, fingers curling into the front of his jacket. “Didn’t notice,” you murmured. “All I saw was a strong man standing up for his girls.”
Holland exhaled slowly and tilted his head back with a groan. “Shame we probably can’t send her to bed any earlier tonight…”
He looked down at you for a second longer, cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. Then his hand slid around your waist, pulling you just a little closer.
“Y’know,” he murmured quietly, “seeing you go feral in that office might’ve been the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
From the car, Holly choked loudly. “Oh my God, can you wait until I pass out?”
AHHH i absolutely adored this fic so so much!! gosh protective!holland makes me so down bad for him its insane! also i love holly in this im so maternal towards her <33
I saw some posts about it how colt would absolutely manhandle you during sex without even really noticing, and maybe in all of his moving you around/changing positions he accidentally kills your orgasm a couple times and I feel you would enjoy that prompt.
gotta tell you anon i finally watched the fall guy because i got this prompt. and colt did not disappoint. i am now obsessed with this man. and you are so so so right
| i am not longer accepting prompts |
prompt: "marathon session"
tags: fem!reader, edging but like on accident, man handling, pinv, etc so forth
Colt was tugging at your ribs and waist again, pulling you up into his chest. He wanted to move again. A different position, a different way for him to ruin you.
This thing started in the first place because he asked you, very nicely, to ride him. But then he couldn't take that anymore, and suddenly you were on your back.
And then you were on all fours.
And then you were on your back again, ankles on his shoulders, while he pounded into you ruthlessly.
You were so, so close. The beginnings of your orgasm tingling in your core and making your back arch. But fucking Colt. With his stupid muscular arms and tendency to throw you around like a rag doll, was pulling you up. Slowing his thrusts. Already on the verge of pulling out of you completely.
"No, do-o-on't," you whined, unable to take it anymore, as he urged you to wrap your legs around his hips. "Colt, please, I...M'close."
"I know, baby, I know," he panted into your cheek, "Just wanna try..."
He pulled up onto his knees, holding you up with wide palms molding your ass. Snaking your arms around his shoulders, you buried your face in his neck as you cried out. This was a new position for you. He felt so deep inside you, he didn't even have to move for you to be on the edge again. Colt pulled out by barely an inch and pushed back in, and you keened, nails digging into the meat of his back as he hit that spot inside you that made your mind go blank.
"C-Colt," you gasped his name as he kept that slow, grinding pace into you.
He gave your ass a squeeze. "Fuck. Feels good, don't it?"
All you could do was whimper in reply. So, so close again. He didn't move this time. It crashed into you like a truck, a cry stuck in your throat as your walls spasmed around his length. Colt followed soon after, hips pistoning into you as he groaned in the back of his throat.
He wasn't even finished cumming inside you before he whispered, hoarse in your ear: "I'm not finished with you yet, sweets."
jackson’s sister ˚⋆ฺ ♡ ⋆˚࿔ | “partner, let me upgrade you.” [long hcs]
holland march x healy!detective!reader
—strangers to coworkers to lovers
࿔ the first time holland saw you, jackson had made the mistake of introducing you too casually. like you’re not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his entire life. your house was the spot for your brother to relax for a bit, and you were casually walking around, perfect hair and a prettier face. looking entirely too refined to be standing in the middle of whatever chaos your brother and his partner were causing.
࿔ holland had heard jackson say something along the lines of “..my sister..” and it was like he had a full system shut down, completely stopping mid sentence. “that’s your sister?! like genetically?? biologically???” “march.” “no, jackson i’m serious, like look at her and look at you.” you’re trying not to laugh while jackson looks like he’s one more word away from homicide.
࿔ he’s attempting to recover and stands up too quickly, banging his knee against your coffee table, you laugh at his whiney voice, and he looks at you with this lovesick look on his face. jackson noticed immediately.
“no.”
“i didn’t say anything..”
“your face did!”
࿔ you spent the first week of knowing him wondering how the fuck did this man make it to his age. you’re helping them with cases because jacskon keeps dragging you along with him, paperwork, phone calls, and picking locks a little too well for someone who claims to not know much about criminal activity. and holland is unbearable about it. constantly hovering around you, offering you drinks you don’t want, dramatically acting wounded whenever you take a jab at him.
࿔ the chemistry is outrageous because you’re composed and razor-sharp while holland is… holland. drunk, chaotic, dramatic, shamelessly flirtatious. you spend half your time glaring at him while secretly trying not to laugh.
࿔ he starts showing off constantly when you’re around too. suddenly every story becomes exaggerated. every punchline gets louder. he’ll do something objectively dangerous during a case and immediately glance at you afterwards to see if you looked impressed. you usually looks horrified instead. which somehow encourages him more. jackson immediately and absolutely hates it.
“stay away from my sister.”
“i’m not going near your sister.” while holland is visibly staring at you from across the room while saying this.
࿔ you’re one of the only people who can genuinely fluster holland too. not because you flirt openly, but because you catch him off guard. you’ll straighten his tie absentmindedly mid-conversation and suddenly he forgets what year it is.
࿔ you’ll lean close to light his cigarette and holland goes completely silent for once in his life.
࿔ the best part is that you clearly like him long before you admit it.
࿔ you start lingering after work. calling him instead of jackson when there’s new information. rolling your eyes affectionately instead of genuinely.
࿔ holland notices every tiny change instantly because he’s paying an absurd amount of attention to you. one night the three of you are working late on a case and you fall asleep on the couch beside holland while reading files. he goes dead quiet immediately. just sits there staring at you with this soft bewildered expression like he cannot believe someone this lovely trusts him enough to sleep near him.
࿔ holland gets under your skin gradually, which makes you also become weirdly protective of him over time. because beneath all the sleazy charm and nonsense you realise he’s actually… kind. pathetically kind, honestly. it’s the little things you notice when he thinks nobody’s paying attention. the way he always positions himself between you and danger automatically. the way he lowers his voice when you’re tired. the way he looks at holly like she hung the moon.
࿔ you realise one night while watching him with his daughter that most of his sleazy persona is armour. performance. a distraction. underneath it is someone painfully soft. and unfortunately for you, you start finding that really attractive.
࿔ you begin looking forward to his visits without meaning to. listening for his obnoxious knocking. catching yourself smiling before you even open the door because you already knows he’ll walk in talking nonsense at full volume.
࿔ holland becomes part of you routine frighteningly quickly. coffee cups left in your sink. his jackets hanging over chairs. the sound of him arguing with jackson in the next room while you secretly try not to laugh.
࿔ you’re memorising him too: the exact tone his voice takes when he’s genuinely worried. how his hair curls slightly when it rains. the fact he gets quieter after bad cases. the way his bravado slips whenever you touch him unexpectedly. holland does get shy around you eventually. that catches you off guard most.
࿔ below all the confidence and flirting, there’s this strange almost-boyish nervousness whenever things become sincere. holland can flirt all day long, but if you compliment him genuinely? he’s finished.
࿔ one night, you’re patching up a cut on his eyebrow after a fight and he suddenly says very softly: “you always look at me like i’m better than i am.” and you answer without hesitation: “maybe you’re worse at seeing yourself than i thought.” holland genuinely doesn’t know what to do with tenderness like that.
࿔ the moment you both realise you’re truly in trouble happens late at night after a rough case. holland’s drunk, bruised, tie hanging loose, sitting at your kitchen table talking quietly for once. he’s telling some story about holly as a child, smiling softly into his whiskey glass. and suddenly you see it. the loneliness in him. not pathetic loneliness. just deep. old. the kind someone jokes through because they don’t know what else to do with it.
࿔ and your chest physically aches looking at him. because beneath all the chaos, holland wants to be loved so badly it’s almost heartbreaking. he can see you looking at him that way, and he knows you feel it too. after that, you’re both softer towards each other.
࿔ he starts drinking less around you eventually, though not intentionally at first. he just likes remembering conversations with you clearly. likes staying sharp enough to notice every little expression you make. you notice immediately of course. “you’re sober.” holland shrugs awkwardly. “trying something new. felt seasonal.”
࿔ one of your favourite things becomes watching holland attempt to act cool when he’s nervous. because he’s terrible at it. he’ll lean casually against walls and immediately lose balance.
࿔ you’re smoothing his clothes out, brushing lint off of him, brushing his messy hair, keeping ashtrays and lighters in every room for him, letting him crash at your house anytime he wants.
࿔ holland notices every single thing. he starts looking at you differently too once he realises you’re caring for him on purpose now. your chemistry gets infinitely worse you begin flirting back intentionally. leaning close while talking just to watch him lose focus. touching his arm casually and feeling him go quiet. calling him “handsome” in that dry teasing voice that makes him stare at her like he’s been shot.
࿔ at some point you catch yourself defending holland automatically whenever jackson insults him. “he’s an idiot.” “he solved the case.” “by accident.” “he still solved it! stop being mean to him!”
࿔ and jackson looks at you with the most confused expression because what the fuck do you like him too???
࿔ holland falls hardest during the quiet moments though. you asleep in the passenger seat while he drives. when you’re humming softly to old jazz records. when you’re instinctively reaching for his hand during stressful moments without even realising you’re doing it.
࿔ one night after a case goes particularly badly, holland shows up at your house bleeding slightly and pretending it’s “mostly superficial”. you clean him up in silence at the bathroom sink while he watches you with unusually soft eyes. and you realise, very suddenly, that trusting holland march feels terrifyingly easy. which is absurd. because he’s a disaster. but he’s your disaster now.
࿔ the first time you kiss him happens almost accidentally. you’re adjusting the bandage near his jaw while he talks quietly about something unimportant, and suddenly he stops mid-sentence because you’re looking at him differently. really looking at him. holland’s voice goes softer immediately. “what?” and you don’t answer. just kiss him. for once in his life holland march is completely speechless. like genuinely stunned silent. then, after several full seconds: “wow.”
࿔ and holland looks at you with this dazed, overwhelmed expression like he cannot believe something this good actually happened to him.
summary: on your fourth big blockbuster working together, you find yourself scolding hollywood’s favorite, tom ryder. to much success, it manages to capture colt’s attention.
pairing: colt seavers x gn!reader
word count: 4.0k
tags: fluff and humor, coworkers to lovers, workplace relationship, mutual attraction, courting, flirty!colt, tom ryder being an asshole, brief gail meyer cameo, sexual humor, minor injury, kiss at the end, script supervisor!reader, gn!reader
cross-posted to ao3
“Solid chance for a reshoot,” you mutter under your breath, as soon as the director calls cut. It’s clearly too loud, because the lead actor for the film whips his head around to locate your voice. Tom Ryder looks like he’s about to throw a temper tantrum; the overly-tight business suit and cowboy hat he’s costumed in does nothing to help his case. You’re perched on your chair, script in-hand with one leg crossed over the other. You can only react with a raised brow.
“That doesn’t make any damn sense. I nailed it. My foot’s on the tape,” Ryder protests, arms flailing down to point at the gaff tape under his left shoe. He isn’t wrong, per say; his foot is most definitely on the spike. But, there’s a very clear issue.
“You’re faced in the—” Uncooperative, you remind yourself. There’s no point in arguing with Ryder head-on. You turn to the director, pen tapping against the stapled script in your hand. “He’s faced in the wrong direction.” You can’t imagine that you’re the only one who’s spotted this, but the vast majority of the crew want to keep their jobs—and someone as fiery as Tom Ryder isn’t the safest to correct.
It’s your fourth big blockbuster with him as lead and it still astounds you how much they let him improv his scenes. It’s difficult to tell if he’s playing different characters or just slightly different versions of himself. You can tell that half the set wants to throw in the towel by this point—with your observations and Ryder’s fussing. He clearly doesn’t want to admit that he’s clearly overlooked the simple detail. “So, Seavers can just reshoot the stunt to match the shot.” Classic.
You don’t even know where Colt is right now. Probably taking a nap in his trailer, or grabbing a bite to eat off-set. You can’t think about that now, because you need to focus on talking over Ryder. “That’s insane,” you counter. “It’s too expensive to reshoot the stunt, and it’s already perfect as-is. It doesn’t take a whole lot of work to recreate the scene you just did.” It’s really not. All he has to do is wave his stupid prop-gun around and run his mouth.
“Pain in the fuckin’ ass,” Ryder mutters indiscreetly. You can only scribble away on your script, unamused. The makeup artist that comes to touch up the highlighter on his cheeks looks half-scared to death. You can tell that she’s in a quick rush to dab the brush at his face and scurry away as fast as possible.
“Tom, bear with us for a minute. We’ve got this scene left, and then it’s press time. You love the press,” the director exclaims, all too sporadically. “We’ll redo the scene really quick, bud. Just go with the flow.”
—
You’ve been keeping your eye on Colt for the last week and a half of production. It’s not that you can control it. Whenever he’s substituting in for Ryder for the fight scenes or the pyro or the vehicular stunts, he’s always front and center. You’ve got to keep your eye on the script and Colt simultaneously; it’s your job—tracking the consistency. In any case, you’d have to do just the same for Ryder. Except, when Colt’s not needed for the shot, you, on occasion, still keep your eye on him.
So, you might have an inkling of a crush on the senior stunt double on your set. The reason, you’ve tried to deduce, is that he’s relatively much nicer than Ryder, which means you’re so much more likely to like him. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t attracted to him, with his blonde highlights and all the movie quotes he spews out between takes.
Usually, you’ll find him at the catering table, on his third cup of your shared fourteen-hour day. It’s under these usual circumstances that he comes to thank you. You feel a tap on your shoulder—and Colt’s there, right beside you, mug in hand. You give him a nod and a smile, trying not to come off too jumpy. He still has his costume on, grayish blue suit and a slightly darker tie to match—topped with a brimmed cowboy hat. It’s the same as Ryder’s. You drop your thermos down on the folding table, trying to figure out what pastry might tie you over for the rest of the day.
“So, I heard you did me a big favor,” Colt murmurs. Word travels fast on-set, clearly. He takes the white little espresso mug up to his lips, taking a sip of the hot brew as he leans back against the catering table. He lowers it just a little to say, “You should’ve just let him make us reshoot.”
You shake your head, picking a scone off one of the trays and placing it onto your flimsy styrofoam tray. “It’s good to get him worked up early during production, so he might ease off the bitching later. It’s like an advanced payment.”
Colt snorts. “Nice,” he says, “I’m pretty sure he’s trying to get Gail to get you fired. Obviously, you didn’t hear it from me.” It barely fazes you. Ryder’s always dying to get somebody fired, and it alternates based on his particular moods. His targeting you is no different than usual.
“She can’t fire me,” you chuckle. After four blockbuster films of you on script with the bigwigs, you’re convinced that you’re invincible. It’s naive, maybe, but you’re good at what you do. You’re credible. And, on this particular contemporary Western at least—with crunch time now, in the middle of spring—you’re safe. You digress, “I know the film inside out, and it’d be a killer to replace me at this point in production.”
“Right,” Colt nods. He doesn’t seem to believe you too much, but it is what it is. He seems to lower his voice as crew, largely lighting and sound in all-black, whizz past you to set up for the next scene. Intently, he tells you, “I wouldn’t mind reshooting if it means Ryder won’t give you as hard of a time.”
Your eyebrows crease. It’s not that you don’t appreciate his efforts to make your life easier. It’s just so simple the way Colt thinks he can be tossed around; you wish he’d be more careful with himself. “Kind offer. Thanks.” You’re brushing him off; he can tell.
“Even if you won’t take me up on it,” Colt tilts his head, “I’m around whenever you need me. What is this, our third film together?” He’s flashing you a grin, back to the table. He must think he’s real cool; you hate that it’s working on you.
“Fourth,” you correct. You’re not sure if it comes out short or timid; regrettably, it feels more like the latter. Colt lowers his mug down onto the table, faltering just slightly.
Briskly, he repeats, “Fourth.” Colt makes an extended effort to turn around and pick your thermos up off the table. You have to suppress a yelped “hey.” Despite your protests, thermos his hand, Colt practically bodyguards the whole setup—the Keurig and the metal basket of espresso pods adjacent to it. Your hip bumps against his as he puts his forearm to fend you off. You’d try to grab for it if you weren’t at work, PAs and DPs flitting around you both. “You don’t have to—”
And, like a flash, Colt tosses your thermos onto the bottom plate, whips the pod into the canister, punches the lid down, and clicks double-shot. “My first installment for you screwing over Ryder on my behalf.” While you’re both waiting for the machine to pour down coffee, he’s humming something like ABBA. “How pissed was he to reshoot?”
“Practically frothing at the mouth,” you tell him, “I’m surprised they didn’t prep a bib.” Colt’s perfectly satisfied with this answer, nodding curtly. Respect. Not many people are capable of talking down on Ryder so openly.
The thermos gets filled halfway, and Colt offers it back up to you, “Here.” You take the thermos back, in steady avoidance of his callused fingertips. He admits, “I don’t know how you like your coffee yet.” Yet? You narrow your eyes. You’re not sure that Colt has ever been so attentive talking to you, and you’re trying not to feel the way your breath hitches in your chest in response.
If there’s anything you’re able to bond about with Colt, it’s the damn on-set coffee. He’s practically running on the stuff, probably ten times worse than you are. His little mug finds its way back into his hands again. Colt fails to speak for a moment, too occupied by… something on your face. You’re trying not to crumple beneath his observation, but Colt’s smiling and he’s searching over your features for something.
Finally, after a few seconds, he lets up. “I’ll get your order down sometime this week. I’m, uh, quick to learn,” he tells you. Then, he raises up his little cup toward you. “Cheers. To you disturbing the peace.” You raise your thermos, and Colt’s ceramic clinks against your metal. A little victory.
—
You could care less about Ryder’s peace, really; but, you’re partially grateful in the fact that it’s allowed you to catch Colt’s attention. Colt sticks to his word about the coffee, because he seems to keep his attention fixed whenever you’re at that catering table with him. And when you’re not at the catering table, he’s still somehow around, holding open doors for you and keeping spare pencils tucked on his person for you to use to mark scripts. You don’t want to mistake it for anything that it’s not, but it feels almost vaguely like Colt Seavers is trying to court you.
All the fuss that he’s been making to please you culminates into a really unnecessary scene on-set. You’re right off camera, next to the director, camera op, Gail, and… Colt. It’s one of those classic getaway car scenes, set in a downtown street; they’ve got Ryder in the motions of hopping into a great Oldsmobile Toronado, while two security guards are trying to hop and skip after him in the facade of a nameless bank. All the action—Ryder yelling “Really, it ain’t personal,” in a vaguely East Coast accent—culminates into him jumping down a set of stairs and whipping the door open. He clambers in, slams the door shut, and throws a big duffel into the backseat. The open zipper of the bag makes for a great effect of bills being scattered all in the closed containment of the car.
The director yells cut and the crew runs round to reset. Ryder runs his nails into his scalp, pushing back his curls; it all comes very easily to him, these things. As terrible as he is a person, he still can’t help but be great at his craft. It’s insufferable. One of the PAs guides him out of the car and off-camera to a tall chair with a glass of water and a tray of fruit. He pops a green grape into his mouth, before staring off in your direction, bored. “Can somebody tell Colt to stop eye-fucking the scripty?”
The notes that you’re taking down in red ink have to wait. You slap your script down onto your lap. “He’s not,” you spit out, gawking most of all at the choice of words. In front of the entire set—oh, you want to kill Ryder; there’s nothing in the world you’d want more.
“I’m not—” Colt scoffs. “I’m trying to gauge if the camera needs to get pulled back. It’s gonna be a killer if I crack the lens.” You look over your shoulder to check Colt’s conviction. There’s zero of it. He’s looking down at you and back at Ryder, hands propped on his hips. You can see his chest rise and fall. Colt wants to look tough, and his composure is doing absolutely to help you.
Ryder laughs, really guffaws. He makes sure to crunch down another green grape, before he shoos the whole arrangement away with a “Thanks, honey.” The PA by Ryder’s side makes sure to make themselves sparse, taking away the fruit and leaving him with the water. Ryder keeps his eye locked on Colt, already quite entertained. “You’re a shitty liar, dude.”
“There’s a reason why one’s the lead and the other’s the double,” Gail says heartily, smacking her gum with a shrug. When she finds that you haven’t agreed with her, or at least laughed alongside the two of them, she gives you an eyeroll under her wide glasses. It’s all wide and clear: Gail thinks you’re no fun. She should really adjust her priorities.
The director groans, “Jesus, Colt, just go get in the car.” The talk is getting you all further behind schedule. Colt’s meant to crash into a storefront window. Amidst the arguing, everything’s all in place—an Oldsmobile replica driven up in place of the real deal, door open for Colt to jump in. You can feel him hand tap the back of your chair as he straightens out his costume and grabs for his crash helmet. A wordless sorry. You try not to jump at the feeling of Colt’s suit brushing against your shoulder as he passes by you.
“You got it, boss,” Colt calls out, exclamation muffled. He throws out a big thumbs up as he makes it over to the car. You have a feeling that Colt is going to grovel later about Ryder making a scene of the two of you, but really, it isn’t the worst thing in the world—at least, until Colt slams the car door shut and Ryder decides to speak up again.
Leaned over in his tall chair, he asks slovenly, “Seriously, are you sleeping with Seavers? If it’s because he’s my stuntman and it’s a power thing—”
“No! No, I’m not sleeping with Colt and even if I was, you would have absolutely nothing to do with you,” you hiss. The ego on Ryder makes your head thrum. You try to keep to your script—taking up the clipboard in your lap to write notes down on your log on the last couple of shots.
“It would make sense ‘cause he looks like me, you hate my guts. It’s like that psychosexual shit that Freud talks about… uh…” Ryder taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair, then clicks his fingers: “Displacement.” Smartass. He probably only knows the term having prepped it for an interview on one of his psychological thrillers. Ryder is about to continue harping on about how flattered he is, but the 1st AD calls quiet on set; he shuts it.
—
You’re stationed at your new spot on the opposite side of the backlot, five feet behind the secondary camera setup—where Colt is meant to swing the car through a large glass window. Luckily, Ryder and Gail have decided amongst themselves to depart elsewhere to talk about the next big film. This way, you’ll be able to worry about this stunt in peace.
At action, the Oldsmobile revs. Colt is making sure to kick up some smoke. You can tell now that this is going to be a good take—just from the way he’s handling the car. If you’re not mistaken, you think that he might even be driving with a bit of extra force. The car starts barreling down the set raucously. You’re trying not to grip your script too hard at the sight of him speeding down the road. As Colt’s car approaches, you’re unable to see his expression past the tinted helmet. The flash that you do catch is of his gloved hands gripping the wheel—and the most that you can do is cross your fingers.
The collision is hard. You can’t help but flinch at the sight of him tearing the car through the pane. It shatters loudly, and you can see the motion of the Oldsmobile hitting the crash pad. The director makes sure to hold, so SFX can machine-pump a bit of fog out of the fictitious storefront and make the scene look a little prettier. Then, they call “Cut.” There’s a whole lot of movement towards the car—first, with brooms to sweep away the stray glass, and second, to check on Colt.
The door of the Oldsmobile whips open, and Colt shoots out a thumbs up. You sigh. He’s fine. As soon as he gets out of the car, though, you can’t help but notice that he’s gripping his shoulder and trying to stretch it back. He takes a moment to tug off his helmet and mess with his hair just a bit. The nearest on-set medic tries to approach him with a “If it hurts, I can take a look at it,” but you hear him deny it with an insistent “All good. Don’t worry about it.” The director runs up to give Colt praises—“The shot was perfect, man. Good job.”—calls a thirty-minute break to the crew, and then rushes away.
By the time Colt gets over to you, you’re still locked into your seat trying to look busy. Your fingers are clasping around your script and logs, trying to straighten out the stack as you tap it atop your knee a few times. He comes up and leans one hand on your armrest. As casual as he tries to make it look, Colt’s trying to keep himself steady. You suck in a breath and look straight up at him. “You screwed your shoulder up, didn’t you?”
His brows furrow. “No. I stepped on the gas harder than I should’ve so it’s just a residual, you know, body reaction,” Colt says, coming off your armrest. For once, Ryder’s right: Colt is a shitty liar. “I would know if I screwed my shoulder up,” he says dismissively.
“You,” you say, index fingers pointed up and towards Colt’s chest, “are going to let me take a look at it, and if it’s bad, I’m going to tell them to send you home early.”
He scoffs. “I still have two more stunts tonight.” But somehow, he’s still bending to your whim—because as soon as you hop off your chair and begin to walk off in the opposite direction, Colt’s right on your tail. “It’s my job to get dinged up,” he says, eyes still tracking your expression. He’s trying to tell whether or not you’re mad at him. You aren’t mad, per say—but you’re not very pleased, either.
His trailer is in sight pretty quickly, tucked away in a corner of the exterior set. It’s really just a giant metal box, identical to the rest. “Okay, yes, you’re supposed to get dinged up, but not recklessly,” you tell him, approaching the front door of the trailer. “Or more than you have to. Quality over quantity, Colt.” When you look over, Colt is trying not to wince. You can’t help but frown at him.
“I’m used to it,” he tells you, shaking his head, “I have Extra Strength Advil in there. It’ll work like a miracle—just watch.”
—
You already know that Colt screwed up his shoulder, because he can’t even take the suit jacket off himself. You have to come up behind him and help him shrug it off, trying to pay no mind to the shaky breaths and heavy groans that come with the movement. The pale blue dress shirt he has on is tight around the arms; it’s not your first time seeing how much muscle Colt has on him, but it’s still just as jarring. So, you’ve got to ignore that, too. The tie is easy for Colt to pull off and toss away. Though, he’s having trouble with the buttons on the shirt—too much pull on his shoulder. You swat his hand aside and begin the motions of unbuttoning it for him.
“Okay. I shouldn’t have driven as fast as I did,” Colt admits to you, “It’s on me, obviously—but it’s also on Ryder.” You get to the bottom button slowly but surely, trying to pay close attention to his words. This feels… close. Considering you’d offered the check-up purely out of worry, this is all more intimate than you’d expected.
You tilt your head. “Because he was saying all that stuff about the…”
“Eyefucking, yeah. And I’m sure it was uncomfortable for both of us to get a load of that in front of all of our coworkers. I didn’t wanna make it a thing, so I just… I was driving angry, which is never a good thing,” Colt says, “He has no class.”
“It’s Ryder, you know? It’s not like his words really ever carry any weight,” you say. Your priority still is to make sure Colt’s shoulder isn’t too screwed up, but it also doesn’t hurt to test the waters. You pop the last button off and try to help him shrug off his dress shirt. It’s difficult not to feel a little shifty in your abdomen when your fingertips slide down against Colt’s bicep; you make sure to fold up the shirt semi-nicely before tossing it down with the tie.
When you turn, Colt in his undershirt and the dress pants looks almost boyishly guilty. You narrow your eyes, “Okay, turn around. Lemme see it.” And Colt does as you say, spinning around to show you his back. His shoulder is splotched purple and green, pigmented all across his shoulder blade. “Fuck, Colt.”
“It always looks worse than it actually is. Stunts 101.” He’s trying to make you laugh, but you’re much too focused on the bruising. He steps away as soon as you ghost your fingers over his skin. Colt’s grabbing an ice pack from his mini fridge and bringing it over his shoulder. “And I should probably use right now as an opportunity to reassure you that I wasn’t trying to eye-fuck you,” Colt says. It’s a contradiction: you can see his eyes flashing down and back up. “Unless, obviously, you wanted me to. Then, it’d be a whole different story. But—”
You kiss Colt, crashing your lips against his, and he practically hurls the ice pack away to hug his arms around your waist. Given the chance, he would’ve gone through a whole spiel of telling you that he respects maintaining a professional relationship. But, now, you’re really laying it all out on the table. Your hands are coming up greedily to cup his face, and he’s sliding his hands up and down your lower back. He tastes like spearmint gum, and his face is burning up the longer you’re close to him.
Colt pulls back only for a moment to look at you; his pupils are dilated beyond repair. “Okay,” he murmurs, “Ryder caught me staring. Good on him for calling me on it.”
“I figured. You’re so easy to read,” you laugh, unable to stifle your amusement. Colt’s not offended at all—only leaning in closer to you. Everything about him seems a little bit lighter after you’ve kissed; he’s standing up straighter, and his hands are coming up to your head. Colt has his nimble, calloused fingers brushing through your hair. It’s a soothing, gentle motion—possibly a distraction—but it’s also romantic enough to placate you. You have to shuffle away a little bit, still locked into Colt’s grasp. “So, can I put in a word with somebody to see if you can get tonight off?”
He drops his hands back down to your waist—the workaholic he is. “If it pleases you, yes. And if it works out, I’ll nap here while you close out, ice my shoulder, and then I can take you out to dinner very, very far away from set. You choose, I pay,” Colt decides, “And we can make out a bit more after dessert. Does that sound good?” He really doesn’t waste any time.
You hum in agreement, hand flattening against Colt’s abs, just under the white wifebeater he’s got on. You can feel his stomach tighten just slightly. Sensitive. “You have me for ten more minutes, and then I’ve gotta go find an AD.”
And cockily, Colt replies, “I’m pretty sure you and I can get a lot done in ten. Don’t you?”
Summary: Colt gets injured in a freak accident on set, you help take care of him and along the way learn a lot about each other
Word count: 7.2k
TW: Injuries, praise, oral, heavy breeding, man handling (he's also such a yapper guys im so sorry. im not immune to a chatty man)
continues under cut !
The roar of engines and the sharp crack of practice explosions had become the soundtrack of your life these last six months. As the script supervisor on some new action movie, you spent your days darting between camera monitors, wrangling last-minute dialogue changes, and trying (mostly failing) to not stare at Colt Seavers. He made it nearly impossible.
The man moved like the stunts he performed were an extension of his own body: fluid, cocky and a little too fearless. Every morning he showed up in worn jeans and a faded black tee, coffee in one hand and a helmet in the other, flashing that crooked grin at the crew like he hadn't just spent the previous day launching himself off buildings or flipping cars. And every time your eyes met across the lot, the air thickened.
It started small. A nod. A lingering look when you handed him updated call sheets. Then came the teasing.
"You keep frowning at those pages like that and you're gonna get wrinkles sweetheart," he'd said one afternoon, leaning against the craft services table while you marked continuity notes. His arm brushed yours as he reach for a water bottle. Neither of you pulled away.
"I'll earn wrinkles worrying about you idiots trying to set new land-speed records on camera," you shot back, but your voice came out softer than intended.
Colt's blue eyes had sparked with mischief. "Good. Means you're thinking about me."
Nothing ever crossed the line. A charged comment here, a brush of fingers there, the way his gaze would drop to your mouth for half a second before he smirked and walked off to the next setup. The tension sat between you like a live wire, visible to everyone paying attention yet remained untouched. Professional.
Today the schedule called for a big vehicle final chase. Colt was doubling the lead again, suited up in a reinforced black fire layer that did absolutely nothing to hide the wide breadth of his shoulders. You stood near video village, clipboard clenched tightly to your chest as you watched him climb up into the modified pickup.
He caught your eye right before the safety check. Instead of his usual cocky wink, he gave you a small, almost private nod. I got this. Your stomach twisted anyways.
The first two takes were flawless. The third was not.
You heard the stunt coordinator's sharp "Wait-!" right as the truck hit the ramp at the wrong angle. The rigging snapped. Metal screamed. The pickup flipped hard, once, twice, crashing roof-first onto the asphalt in a shower of sparks and shattered glass.
For one terrifying heartbeat, the entire set went silent.
Then chaos.
"Colt!" You were moving before you even realized it, shoving past PA's and grips, heart hammering against your ribs. The safety team reached him first, but you dropped to your knees beside the wreckage anyway as he dragged himself out the driver's side window.
Blood streaked down the side of his face from a cut above his eyebrow. He was favoring his left side heavily, one arm clutched tight against his ribs, jaw locked in a tight grimace. Dust and grease smeared across his suit.
"Easy," you said, voice shaking as you helped steady him. "Don't move too fast. The medics should have a look at you."
"I'm good. I just need to sit down for a minute," he grunted, but the way he leaned into your shoulder said otherwise. His breathing was shallow, pained. Up close you could see the sweat on his temples and the way his hands trembled slightly from adrenaline and injury.
"Liar," you whispered. You slipped an arm around his waist, careful not to press on his ribs, and guided him toward the cluster of production trailers. He let you. His free hand settled low on your back, steadying himself. The heat of his palm burned through your thin shirt.
Inside the nearest trailer you used as a makeshift office, you eased him down onto the small couch. He hissed when his back met the cushions.
"Stay put," you ordered, already rummaging through the well stocked first aid kit. Your hands were steadier than you felt as you knelt in front of him, tilting his chin up to inspect the cut.
Colt watched you the whole time, eyes half-lidded. "You didn't have to run out there like that," he said quietly. "Could've been dangerous."
"You could've been hurt worse." You dabbed antiseptic on the gash, trying to ignore how close yours faces were. His breath ghosted across your wrist. "And I... I needed to see you were okay."
A beat of silence stretched between you. That familiar tension coiled tighter, thick enough to taste. His gaze dropped to your lips again, longer this time. You swallowed hard and focused on bandaging the cut.
The on-set medic arrived a minute later, along with the stunt coordinator. The checked Colt over thoroughly, two cracked ribs, bruised shoulder and the usual collection of scrapes and gashes. No hospital needed, but he was officially done for the day and ordered to stay on house arrest for at least the next week.
"I can drive myself," Colt protested as the medic left.
"You're not driving anywhere," you said firmly, cutting him off. "I'll take you home. No arguments."
He looked like he wanted to argue anyway, but after a long second he just exhaled and nodded, that trademark smirk weakened by pain. "Yes ma'am."
The drive to his place was quiet. Colt kept one hand pressed to his ribs and the other resting on the center console, close enough that your fingers nearly brushed every time you shifted gears. You helped him inside the modest but surprisingly neat house on the edge of town, ignoring the way your pulse spiked when he leaned on you again walking up the steps.
You settled him on the couch with ice packs, painkillers and a glass of water. The late afternoon light filtered through the blinds, casting soft stripes across his face. He looked exhausted but still unfairly handsome, hair messy and shirt discarded in favor of just a compression wrap around his torso.
"You don't have to stay," he murmured, eyes already drifting shut as the meds kicked in. "I've crashed harder than this before. This is just another Thursday for me."
"I know." You tucked a blanket over his lap. Your hand hovered near his uninjured shoulder. "But I'm going to. At least until you're not wincing every time you breathe."
Colt's eyes opened again, softer now. The tension that had simmered for weeks was still there, heavier now in the quiet of his living room. No cameras. No crew watching. Just the two of you.
He reached up slowly, fingers brushing your wrist. Not pulling you closer, just holding the contact, warm and careful.
"Thank you," he said, voice low and rough. "For looking out for me today."
You stayed.
The first night you told yourself it was just until the painkillers fully kicked in and you were sure none of his symptoms were going to worsen. By the second day, that excuse had quietly dissolved. Colt didn't ask you to leave, and you didn't offer.
His house was quieter that you expected, modest, with warm leather furniture, a surprising number of books stacked on shelves, and framed photos of wild stunt crashes and sunsets from various film locations. You made yourself useful. Mornings started with coffee (black for him and a heavy dose of sugar and cream in your mug), followed by convincing Colt to stay on the couch instead of trying to "walk it off."
"You're terrible at resting," you muttered on the third morning, adjusting the ice pack over his wrapped ribs.
Colt leaned back against the cushions with a low hiss, shirtless except for the compression bandage. The bruising along his left side had bloomed into deep purples and muddled greens, but the cut above his eyebrow was already scabbing over nicely. "I've been shot at, thrown off bridges, and set on fire for a living. Sitting still feels like a punishment."
"Too bad." You gently pressed the ice pack into place, your fingertips brushing the warm skin just above the bandage. His breath caught, and for a second neither of you moved. You cleared your throat and stepped back. "Medic's orders. At least seventy-two hours minimum, remember? You're on day three and you still wince when you breathe too deep."
He watched you with that half-lidded stare that always made your stomach flip. "You're bossy when you're worried."
"I'm not worried," you lied, turning toward the kitchen so he wouldn't see the flush on your cheeks. "I just don't want to explain to the director why his best stuntman is out for a month instead of a week."
By evening he was restless. You helped him to the back porch so he could get some fresh air, one arm carefully looped around his waist as he moved slowly down the short hallway. His body was solid and warm against your side, and every shift reminded you just how close you were. His fingers flexed against your hip like he wanted to hold on tighter but was holding himself back.
Once settled in a cushioned outdoor chair, he let out a long breath.
"You don't have to do all this," he said quietly, staring out at the fenced yard. "I know you've got work tomorrow."
"I swapped shifts with Emma. She's covering set notes for a couple days." You sat in the chair beside him, tucking your legs up underneath you. "Besides... someone has to make sure you eat more than protein bars and beer."
He turned his head, studying you in the fading light. The usual cocky smirk was softer around the edges now, worn down by pain and the strange intimacy of being taken care of. "Why are you really, then?"
You hesitated, tracing a fingertip around the seam of the chair cushion. The tension that had lived between you for weeks felt different now, less like a live wire and more like a slow-burning flame.
"Because I saw you pull yourself out of that wreck," you admitted. "And for a second I thought..." you swallowed. "I didn't like how that felt. So I'm here. Until you're better."
Colt was quiet for a long moment. Then his hand reached across the space between your chairs, palm up. Not demanding, just an offer. You slid your fingers into his. His grip was warm and careful, thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles.
"I've been thinking about you for weeks," he said, voice low. "Every time I climbed into a rig, every time I walked part video village. Kept telling myself to keep it professional. Didn't want to mess up your job or scare you off."
Your heart thudded hard. "You didn't scare me off."
"No?" His mouth curved, tired but genuine. "Even though I'm currently grumpy and useless?"
"Especially then." You squeezed his hand. "I like seeing the version of you that isn't jumping out of exploding car. Makes me feel like I get the real Colt for a little while. Though, I wish it was different circumstances."
He let out a rough breath that might have been a laugh. His thumb kept stroking your skin, slow and absent, like he couldn't help himself. The two of you sat there as the sun dipped low, hands folded together. Colt sat there, ribs aching and shoulder stiff but fully content to stay in that moment for as long as possible.
-
The next few days blurred together in a rhythm of small comforts. You made him soup and forced him to eat it. He let you change his bandages without complaining too much, though his jaw stayed tight every time your fingers grazed the tender bruises. In the evenings you sat together on the couch watching old action movies, his head eventually tipping toward your shoulder as the pain meds pulled him under the lull of sleep. You stayed still every time, afraid to wake him, afraid to lose the quiet weight of him trusting you like this.
One afternoon while you were folding a fresh ice pack wrap in the kitchen, Colt appeared in the doorway, moving better now though still slow. He'd managed to pull on a soft blue t-shirt, and some of the color had returned back to his face.
"You're healing." you said, unable to hide the relief in your voice.
"Slowly." He leaned against the frame, watching you. "I'll be back on light duty in a few days. Coordinator already called."
You nodded, suddenly aware of how close the end of this little bubble was. "Good. That's... good."
Colt crossed the room carefully until he was standing right in front of you. Close. Closer than he'd let himself get since the crash. His hand lifted, knuckles brushing a stray stand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.
"I've been a shitty patient," he murmured. "But having you here.. it's been the best thing that's come out of this wreck."
Your breath caught. His eyes dropped to your mouth, dark with intent. The months of built up tension crackling between you like it might finally break. His thumb lingered on your cheek.
"You're still recovering," you whispered, even as you leaned lightly into his touch.
Colt's smile was small and pained, but his voice was steady. "Yeah. I know" He exhaled, resting his forehead lightly against yours for just a second. "Doesn't make me want you any less though."
He pulled back before either of you could cross that final line, but the promise in his eyes was unmistakable.
Soon. When he was better. When he could hold you without wincing. And you both knew it.
By day six, Colt was moving much better. The deep bruises on his ribs had shifted into ugly yellow-green, and he could take a full breath without his lungs aching. He'd been making good process but you knew he still was pained every once in a while. You caught him grimacing every time he twisted too fast or tried to reach for something on a high shelf. He'd grunt and play it off with a smirk and a laugh but you saw the strain.
That evening you were both on the couch again, the lights low and an old western playing on the television. Colt had convinced you to sit closer tonight, his good arm stretched along the back of the couch so his fingers could idly play with the ends of your hair. The casual touches had become bolder; his hand on your lower back when you brought him water, your thigh pressed against his as you sat on the couch together, the way he looked at you like he was memorizing every detail.
"You keep staring," you said softly, turning your head to meet his eyes.
"Can't help it." His voice was rough, lower than usual. "Been stuck in this house with the prettiest script supervisor in Hollywood taking care of me. A man's got limits."
You laughed, but the sound died when his fingers slid from your hair to the nape of your neck, fingertips tangling in the strands. The air thickened instantly. That familiar live wire tension snapped tight between you, the last week of almost and what-ifs finally demanding attention.
"Colt..." you whispered.
He didn't let you finish. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn't. The moment his lips met yours the kiss was soft, testing. Then the dam broke.
Colt made a low sound in throat and pulled you closer, his mouth turning hungry. Weeks of restrained want poured out as he kissed like he'd been starving for it. His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair while the other gripped your hip. You shifted toward him, knees pressing into the couch as you kissed him back just as hard.
It deepened fast. Tongues sliding, breaths mingling, bodies trying to get closer despite the awkward angle on the couch. His stubble scraped deliciously against your skin. You nipped at his bottom lip and he ground, the sound vibrating through you. For a moment it felt perfect, electric, everything you'd both been holding back.
Then he twisted slightly to pull you into his lap and a sharp, pained hiss escaped him.
You felt it immediately, the way his body tensed and how his breath stuttered against your mouth. His left side locked up, ribs protesting the movement.
"Shit-" He broke the kiss with a grimace, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to breathe through the sharp spike of pain.
"Colt," you breathed, instantly pulling back. Your hands framed his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "Hey, easy. Breathe."
He leaned his forehead against yours, eyes still closed and jaw tight. "I'm fine," he rasped, but the strain in his voice said otherwise. One hand stayed possessively on your hip while other moved to be pressed carefully to his wrapped ribs. "Just... moved wrong. Goddamn it."
You stayed by his side, careful to keep your weight off him as you stroked his hair while the pain slowly subsided. Your heart was still racing, lips tingling from the intensity of the kiss. "We should stop," you whispered, even though every part of you didn't want to. "You're not ready for this yet."
Colt let out a frustrated huff, eyes finally opening. They were dark, frustrated and full of the same want still burning in your chest. "I've wanted to do that for weeks. Months, maybe. And now my own body's cockblocking me."
You laughed softly, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You're healing. That was.. intense. Too intense for cracked ribs."
For a long moment he just looked at you then leaned in again, this time slower and more deliberate. This kiss was unhurried, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, sensual rhythm that made your toes curl. He kissed you like he was learning the shape of your mouth, like he wanted to commit every sigh and taste to memory. It was intense in a different way, full of promise and barely leashed hunger. Your fingers curled into his shirt as heat pooled low in your stomach. Colt angled his head, kissing you harder for a few perfect second, a quiet groan rumbling in his chest.
But then his ribs protested again. He pulled back with a sharp inhale, jaw clenched tight. "Damn it. I want you so it's killing me. Literally, apparently."
You let out a breathless laugh, "when you're healed.. when you can move without wincing.. we're not stopping."
Colt's eyes darkened with heat and agreement. He brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, still slightly swollen from his kisses.
"Deal," he rasped. "First day I'm cleared.. I'm taking my time with you sweetheart. No rushing. No pain. Just me and you."
You smiled, curling carefully against his good side as his arm wrapped around you. The movie played on, completely forgotten. For now, this was enough. The steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, and the sweet anticipation of everything still to come.
He pressed one last gentle kiss to your mouth then to the top of your head, murmuring against your hair, "Worth the wait. You always are."
-
Later that night, the house was quiet except for the low hum of the ceiling fan. The western had ended hours ago and you'd both been lingering in the comfortable silence that followed your kiss.
You stood from the couch and stretched, glancing toward the linen closet. "I'm gonna grab the extra blankets. Sleep is calling my name."
Colt, still sitting with one hand carefully braced against his ribs, frowned. He watched you for a long moment, the lamplight catching the bruise along his jaw and the healing cut above his eyebrow.
"You don't have to keep sleeping out here," he said quietly.
You pause, arms full of the folded blankets you'd been using the last few nights. "It's fine. I don't mind."
"I do." He pushed himself up slowly, jaw tightening at the movement though he managed to maneuver without a groan this time. He crossed the short distance until he was standing in front of you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "My bed's big. Plenty of room. And I'd sleep a hell of a lot better knowing you weren't all cramped on that old lumpy couch."
Your heart shuttered. Sharing his bed felt like another line crossed, more intimate than the kisses even if nothing else happened. You searched his face, looking for any sign he was pushing through pain just to be polite.
"Colt.. you're still hurting. I don't want to accidentally elbow you in the ribs in the middle of the night."
His mouth curved into that familiar half-smirk, though it was softer now, almost vulnerable. "Sweetheart, I've been lying in that big empty big bed for the last week thinking about you out here. If you're worried about hurting me, I'll sleep on the right side. You can have the left. I just..." He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck with his good hand. "I want you closer. That's all."
The honesty in his voice made your chest tighten. You'd spent days taking care of him, changing ice packs, making sure he took his meds, catching him when he'd try to do too much.. but this felt different. More personal.
"Okay," you said softly. "If you're sure."
"I'm sure."
-
A little while later, after you'd both gotten ready for bed, you slipped beneath the covers of his king-sized bed. Colt eased himself down on the right side with a careful breath, wearing nothing a pair of loose sweatpants. The compression wrap was still snug around his torso, the bruises on his ribs a vivid reminder of why you both needed to be gentle.
You settled on your side facing him, leaving a careful gap between your bodies. The sheets smelled like him, clean soap and that warm, masculine smell that always made your pulse quicken. For a minute, neither of you spoke. The only light came from the hallway nightlight spilling faintly through the open door of the bedroom.
Colt turned his head towards you, "Come here."
You hesitated only a second before sliding closer. He lifted his right arm carefully, and you tucked yourself against his uninjured side, head resting on his shoulder, one hand lightly splayed across his chest. His arm curled around your back, palm settling possessively just above the curve of your waist.
"Better?" you whispered.
"Much." His voice rumbled under your cheek. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns on your back through your sleep shirt. "I've been wanting this since the first time you patched me up after that wreck."
You smiled against his skin. "Even when you were being a grumpy patient?"
"Especially then." He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple. "You make me feel.. looked after. Not many people do that for me."
You tilted your head up to look at him. He leaned down to kiss you, slow and sweet this time. No frantic hunger. Just the lingering pressure and the gentle slide of his lips against yours. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
Colt let out a contented breath, his arm tightening around you just a little. The house grew quieter as the lull of sleep started to tug at both of you. His heartbeat was steady under your palm, the constant thumping lulling you to sleep.
"Night, sweetheart," he murmured into your hair.
"Goodnight, Colt."
-
Three and a half weeks later, Colt was finally cleared.
The moment the doctor gave him the all-clear, the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable. The drive home was thick with tension, his hand gripping your thigh the entire way, thumb stroking restlessly over your skin. You barely made it through the front door before he had you pinned against it.
His mouth crashed into yours with weeks of pent up longing. The kiss was deep, desperate and devouring- nothing like the tender kisses you'd shared while he was healing. Colt kissed you like a man who had been starving, tongue sliding hotly against yours, one large hand cradling the back of your head while the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave light bruises in the shape of his fingers.
"Fuck, I've missed this," he groaned against your lips between kisses. "Missed your mouth. Missed the way you taste. Every night you were lying next to me I wanted to kiss you until you couldn't breathe."
You whimpered into his mouth as he tilted his head and kissed you even deeper, slower, more sensual. His stubble scraped deliciously against your skin. He sucked hard on your bottom lip, teeth biting into it before he soothed his tongue over it. The kiss turned filthy, the sounds of soft groans and whines filling the hallway. Your hands fisted in his shirt as heat pooled low in your belly.
Colt pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against your, both of you breathing hard.
"I need you." He rasped. "All of you."
He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom. The kisses never stopped, messy and urgent against your mouth, your jaw, your neck. By the time he laid you down on the bed, your lips were swollen and tingling.
Colt stripped you with reverence, but his hands trembled slightly with restraint. Every piece of clothing removed was followed by his mouth, kissing down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse point, then lower. He spent long minutes lavishing attention on your breasts, tongue circling one nipple while his hand kneaded the other, groaning like he was the one being pleasured.
When he finally tugged your underwear down your legs and settled between your thighs, the sound he made was broken.
"Goddamn sweetheart.." His voice was wrecked with awe. He spread your thighs wider with those big, strong hands, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin right beside where you needed him most. "Look how wet you are. Been thinking about this pretty cunt for weeks. Dreamin about it."
He leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly up your center in one long, broad stroke. The moan that tore through his chest was pure bliss.
"Fuck- You taste even better than I imagined."
Colt didn't tease. He buried his face in you like a man possessed, pussy drunk from the very first taste. His mouth was hot and greedy, licking and sucking with shameless hunger. He sealed his lips around your clit and sucked gently, then firmer, alternating with slow, sensual circles of his tongue that had your back arching up off the bed.
"Oh my god- Colt-"
He moaned loudly against you, the vibrations shooting pleasure through your core. His hips rocked helplessly into the mattress, seeking friction as he devoured you. Two thick fingers slowly pushed inside you, curling perfectly against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"So fucking sweet," he mumbled, barely pulling away long enough to speak. His voice was thick, lips shiny with your arousal. "Could eat this cunt for hours. Been dying to drown in you baby. You're so wet.. so perfect. Good girl, letting me taste you like this."
He dove back in with renewed fervor, licking and sucking messily, fingers thrusting deeper. The obscene wet sounds of his mouth filled the room alongside your moans and his constant, low groans of pleasure. He was completely lost in it, eyes half closed in ecstasy, stubble rubbing against your inner thighs, tongue working you relentlessly.
Every time you clenched around his fingers he moaned like it was the best thing he'd ever felt.
"That's it," he praised, voice rough and adoring between long licks. "Ride my face, pretty girl. Use me. Fuck, you're squeezing so tight around my fingers.. Cunt's gonna feel like heaven on my cock."
Your thighs began to tremble, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter under his expert, hungry mouth. Colt could feel it. He doubled down, sucking your clit hard while his fingers curled faster, growling praises against your soaked flesh.
"Come for me baby. Want to feel you come on my tongue. Been waiting so fucking long for this."
The orgasm crashed over you hard. You cried out his name, hips bucking against his face as pleasure flowed through every nerve. Colt moaned loudly, licking you through every wave like he couldn't get enough, drawing out your pleasure until you were shaking and breathless.
Only then did he kiss his way back up your body, lips and chin glistening. He captured your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, dipping his tongue into your mouth before pulling back out of the kiss.
"I'm nowhere near done with you yet," he whispered against your lips, eyes dark. "Tell me you're ready for more, sweetheart."
"Yes," you breathed, pulling him down into another messy kiss. "I want you, Colt. All of you."
That was all he needed.
With a low growl, Colt manhandled you like you weighed nothing, maneuvering your body how he wanted. He sat up straight, tugging his shirt off over his head to discard it somewhere with your clothes.
"Been dying to fuck you properly," he rasped, shoving his jeans and boxers off, also being discarded to the floor. His cock slapped heavily against the skin of his lower stomach, "No more holding back."
He gripped your thighs, spreading them wide and pushing them back to your chest, folding you open beneath him. Colt stared down at your dripping cunt with raw hunger, stroking himself once before dragging the head through your slick folds.
"Fuck.. look at you," he groaned, then pushed in with one deep, long thrust.
You cried out at the stretch as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours. The groan that tore from his throat was guttural.
"So tight.. so fucking perfect," he panted before starting to move, deep thrusts that shook the bed frame with every push forward.
Colt kept your thighs pinned back, manhandling you exactly how he wanted as he fucked you. Every thrust was hard and claiming, his grip bruising in the most delicious way. He leaned down to kiss you hard, swallowing your moans while his hips drove into you.
"Been waiting so long for this," he growled against your mouth. "Every night you were next to me in my bed, I wanted to pull you under me and fuck you just like this."
He suddenly pulled out, making you whine at the loss, only to flip you onto your stomach with ease. He yanked your hips up, shoved a pillow underneath them and slammed back inside you from behind in one smooth thrust.
"Shit- yes," you moaned loudly, pushing back against him.
Colt's hand fisted in your hair as the other gripped your ass, spreading you open so he could watch every inch of his cock disappearing inside you. He pounded into you with deep, rhythmic strokes, the wet slap of skin filling the room.
"That's my good girl," he praised. "Taking me so fucking well. This cunt feel even better than I dreamed."
He leaned over your back, lips brushing over the shell of your ear as one arm wrapped around you. His fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles while he kept fucking you hard.
"You're so wet for me, baby. Been aching for this cock, haven't you?"
"Yes! Colt, please," you gasped, clenching around him.
"I know baby, I know. I'm gonna take care of you." He groaned at the feeling, hips snapping harder. "Gonna fill you up so good, pretty girl."
The manhandling continued as he pulled you up onto your knees, back pressed to his chest. One of his big hands wrapped loosely around your throat, not quite tight enough to cut off your air supply, while the other stayed between your legs, rubbing your clit. He fucked up into you with deep, grinding thrusts, lips attached to your neck.
Every movement was controlled, powerful, and full of months of built up yearning. Colt kissed and bit at your shoulder, murmuring praise between heavy breaths.
"Such a good fucking girl for me.. letting me have you like this. Been dying to feel you come on my cock."
The angle, his fingers and the sheer intensity finally pushed you over the edge. You came hard with a broken cry, pulsing around him. Colt fucked through it, arms wrapped tight around you, like he couldn't bear even an inch of separation.
For a long moment, you both stayed like that, breathing hard as Colt gave you a moment to recollect yourself. He pressed soft, open mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder as he stayed buried in you.
He pulled out and carefully lowered you back down onto the bed, helping you to get all situated on your back once again.
"Think you can take me again?" He smiled as you nodded.
Colt leaned down to kiss you deeply as you caught your breath, his tongue sliding lazily against yours. His head of his cock bumped your clit as he slowly ground himself against you, already desperate to get back inside you.
"I need you deeper," he murmured against your lips. "Need to fuck you so full you feel me for days."
Before you could respond, Colt pulled back and moved his hands to your thighs, folding you in half beneath him again, this time harder. Your knees pressed toward your shoulders, ankles framing your head in a deep press. The position left you completely open and helpless, pussy tilted upward and fully exposed for him.
"Fuck, look at you." Colt groaned, eyes raking over your folded body. "So pretty like this. Spread open just for me."
He braced his hands on the backs of your thighs, pinning you down as he lined up and sank back inside you in one long, devastating thrust. The new angle allowing him in even deeper. You moaned loudly at the intense stretch, feeling every thick inch of him.
Colt leaned down, folding you even tighter and captured your mouth in a tight kiss. His tongue plunged deep, matching the rhythm of his cock as he started fucking you with slow, hard strokes.
"Goddamn," he panted between kisses. "This cunt is taking me so deep. Feel that?" He ground his hips in a slow circle, pressing against your cervix. "Gonna fill you right here. Get you nice and full of me."
You whimpered into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders as he kissed you again, messy and desperate. Every thrust drove the air from your lungs. Colt's body covered yours completely, muscles flexing as he held you folded and fucked you hard.
"You want it, don't you?" he growled, "Want me to breed this pretty cunt?"
"Yes- Colt please," you gasped, clenching hard around him. "Fill me up please."
The words made him moan loudly. He kissed you again, harder this time. The wet obscene sound of his cock driving into your soaked cunt filled the room with every deep thrust.
"That's my good girl," he praised against your lips, kissing you between sentences. "Taking me so well. You were made for this weren't you ? Made for me to breed you ?"
He shifted his angle slightly and hit that perfect spot inside you, making you cry out into his mouth. Colt swallowed every moan, kissing you like he wanted to devour you whole.
His pace grew punishing, hips slamming down into you. The position made everything feel more intense, more intimate.
"Come for me sweetheart," he breathed against your mouth, eyes locked on yours. "Want to feel this cunt milk my cock when I fill you up."
The combination of his deep thrusts, his filthy words, and the constant hungry kisses sent you in a downward spiral. You came hard with a broken cry, clenching and pulsing around his cock. Colt groaned loudly, kissing you through your orgasm as his own release hit. He buried himself as deep as possible and came with a low groan, flooding you with thick, hot spurts.
He kept you folded beneath him, grinding slowly through the aftershocks, kissing you softly as he emptied every drop inside you.
"Stay just like this," he whispered, pressing gentle kisses to your swollen lips, your cheeks, your forehead.
Colt finally eased your legs down, pulling out and settling onto his back. He pulled you to lay on his chest, hand soothing over your back and spine.
Not quite done with him, you climbed up into his lap, exhausted but still aching for him. "Wanna ride you, please?"
Colt groaned as he nodded, watching as you lined yourself up with his cock and slowly sank onto it, being filled inch by delicious inch yet again. Your hands were braced against his chest as you lowered yourself until your hips were flush with his.
"Fuck.. that's it," he breathed, hands coming up to settle gently on your waist.
This time there was no frantic manhandling or pounding thrusts. The pace was slow, intimate and tender. You rolled your hips in lazy circles, then rocked gently back and forth, savoring the deep, full feeling of him inside you. Colt's hands slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples as he watched you with pure adoration.
"You're so beautiful like this," he whispered, eyes locked on yours. "Riding me so well.. after I've already fucked you so hard. My good girl."
Colt wrapped one arm around your back, holding you while his other hand guided your hips in a gentle rhythm. Every roll of your hips drew quiet wrecked sounds from both of you. The intensity had shifted into something warmer and more emotional. You could feel every inch of him dragging along your walls as you rode him unhurriedly.
His grip on your hips tightened just slightly, but he let you keep control of the pace. The gentle wet, sounds of your body moving together filled the quiet room. Colt pulled you down to kiss you, occasionally breaking away to kiss and bite at your neck or whisper sweet praises against your skin.
"You feel so fucking good.. so warm and tight around me," he groaned.
Your thighs started to tremble with exhaustion and building pleasure. Colt slid one hand between your bodies, rubbing gentle circles over your clit with his thumb. The added stimulation made you whimper into his mouth.
"I'm close," you gasped.
"Me too," he groaned, leaning up to kiss you again. "Come with me sweetheart. Want to fill you up one more time."
The slow, deep grind of your hips combined with his thumb finally pushed you over the edge with Colt following you right after. He groaned into your mouth as he spilled into you, hand roughly holding your hip as he ground up into you, trying to push every drop as deep as possible.
You collapsed onto his chest, completely spent, his cock still buried deep inside you. Colt wrapped both arms around you, holding you tightly against him as you both caught your breath. He pressed slow, lazy kisses to everywhere he could reach with his mouth. Once your breath was sufficiently caught he rolled you onto your back.
"Easy, baby." he murmured, voice low. He slowly pulled out of you, groaning softly at the sight of his cum leaking out of your cunt. For a moment he stared, fighting the urge to try and scoop it back into you before he shook himself out of it.
He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a warm, damp cloth. You expected him to hand it to you, but Colt gently pushed your thighs apart again and cleaned you up with careful, tender strokes.
"You're shaking," he said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Did I wear you out?"
"Completely," you admitted with a small smile as your head cuddled further into the plush pillow beneath it.
Once he was satisfied you were clean, he tossed the cloth aside and climbed back into bed, pulling the comforter over both of you. He immediately drew you into his arms, tucking you against his chest so your head rested on his shoulder. One of his legs tangled with yours, and his hand settled possessively on your hip under the blanket.
For a while, you just lay there in comfortable silence, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin while you listened to his heartbeat slow down.
"So.. what are we doing here?" He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Because after tonight.. I don't think I can go back to pretending there's nothing between us on set."
You tilted your head to look up at him. "What do you want this to be, Colt?"
He was quiet for a moment, thinking. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing gently along your jaw.
"I want you," he said simply. "Not just like this. I want to take you out when we're not shooting. I want to kiss you good morning and goodnight. I want the crew to know you're mine so they stop looking at you like they have a chance." He let out a small chuckle, "I've been crazy about you for months. The crash just gave me an excuse to finally let myself have you."
You heart swelled. You reached up and traced the faint scar above his eyebrow from the accident.
"I want that too," you whispered. "I've wanted it for a long time. But.. we work together. Are we going to keep this quiet on set?"
Colt shook his head. "I don't want to hide it. I'm not saying we make out in front of the director, but I'm not pretending anymore. You're mine now." He tilted your chin up and kissed you slowly, tenderly. "If you'll have me."
You smiled against his lips. "I'm yours."
He exhaled in relief and pulled you even closer, wrapping both arms around you now. "Good. Because I'm not letting you sleep on that damn couch ever again. This bed is ours now."
You nestled deeper into his chest, feeling safe and warm and completely spent.
"So.. boyfriend?" you asked playfully, tracing circles on his lower stomach with the tip of your fingers.
Colt's laugh rumbled under your ear. "Boyfriend. Partner. Whatever you want to call me. As long as you're in my bed every night and I get to take care of you the way you took care of me."
He lifted your face up again for another slow, sweet kiss.
"We'll figure out the set stuff as go," he murmured. "But this? Us? This is happening. I've waited too long to waster any more time."
You nodded, pressing one last kiss to his chest before letting exhaustion pull you under.
"Sounds perfect to me."
Colt held you tighter, lips brushing the top of your head as sleep started to claim him too.
summary: Court can’t sleep because he wants to be inside you.
navigation
You and Court had a long day. He had gone from one gunfight to another that day, and now that you were on the run with him, he’d had to keep you safe as well. You were growing better at handling it when someone tried to kill the two of you, but it was still a new experience for you and it always made you exhausted. Not that all the literal running was any help.
You’d gotten away and found a hotel room somewhere in the German countryside and Court felt assured you were safe. The two of you crawled into bed after your showers. Court kissed you goodnight and you snuggled into his side as you tried to sleep away the day’s horrors.
It had been about twenty minutes and Court wouldn’t stop moving around. You rolled off his chest, thinking that you might be making him uncomfortable. Even if you weren't, he was keeping you up. You were just about to drift off when Court grabbed your waist and pulled you against his body so that your back was pressed to his chest. You happened to notice something else was pressed against you as well. Court slowly ground his hips against your ass, his erection pressing into the fabric of your underwear. He groaned into your ear. Despite how tired you were, the sound still sent a tingle to your nether regions.
“I need to be inside you, baby,” he purred against your neck.
“Too tired,” you mumbled back.
“We don’t have to do anything. Just want you wrapped around me,” he whispered against your skin.
“You know exactly what will happen,” you muttered. Court had made this request before and it always ended up causing you both to stay up longer.
“Not tonight, I promise,” he said. He began peppering your exposed neck and shoulder in soft kisses. You hadn’t moved from your still position on your side.
“Court…” you protested weakly.
“Please, baby. Can’t sleep without being inside your sweet pussy.” You let out the smallest whimper at his dirty words. Court smirked knowing he was going to win you over. He slid his hand around your body and pushed it beneath your underwear. He reached down to your slit and felt that you were already wet. You felt him smile against your skin.
“C’mon, baby,” Court murmured as he moved his lips to your jaw. “You don’t want to waste all this, do you?” He pulled his fingers from your underwear and showed you the wetness that was now coating his ring and middle fingers. Before you could say anything he moved his fingers to your lips, tapping them against your bottom lip gently. You mentally kicked yourself, but you couldn’t help but give in. You wrapped your lips around his fingers and sucked your wetness off them. You pulled off of him and let out a little sigh of defeat.
“You promised you wouldn’t keep me up,” you said. “If I feel you moving you’re gonna be in trouble.” Court grinned against your neck. He bit you lightly as he slid his fingers back into your underwear.
“Just gotta warm you up a little, sweetheart,” Court cooed. He began swirling his fingers around your clit and soon you were mewling in his arms. Court reached down to run his fingers through your folds again and found you thoroughly soaked. “Ready, baby?” Court asked from behind you.
“Yes,” you hummed. “Want it now too.” He smirked as he pulled your underwear to the side. You felt his tip prodding against your slit. Suddenly you felt him pushing into you and you gasped.
“Fuck, baby. So warm,” Court moaned as he pushed into you.
“No moving,” you said. He kissed your shoulder blade.
“No moving,” he agreed as he continued pushing into you till he was buried to the hilt and your ass was pushed against his hips. You hummed when he settled, feeling whole. You wouldn’t admit it, but you liked this as much as him. He groaned as he felt you clench around him. “Baby,” he whined against your ear. “Can’t be doing that to me if you don’t want me to move.”
“Sorry,” you mumbled. “Just makes me feel so full.” Court felt himself throb inside you at your words.
“You like being full of me?” He asked.
“Court…” You warned. “No dirty talk. Too tired.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I promised.” He kissed the top of your shoulder chastely and slipped his hand under the hem of your shirt so he could touch your skin. “Thank you, baby,” he mumbled.
“Always,” you mumbled back before the two of you drifted off.
When Court woke up, he was still inside you and he never remembered waking up so happy. You woke shortly after him and when you snuggled back into him he let out a little moan. You smirked at the sound. You clenched down on him as hard as you could and he groaned.
Summary: Court is tired and just wants to sleep, you have something else in mind.
Warnings: pure smut, I’m not sorry. unprotected piv, cockwarming, lil bit of masturbation. 18+ only.
Word Count: 916
A/N: I woke up with the need to write some filth. I hope you enjoy this short little fic. Could kinda be seen as in The Other Fitzroy! verse somewhere in the future. Also not beta’d or proofread so I’m sorry y’all.
Warnings: 18+, PWP, floor sex, no protection (wrap it!!!), blood, canon typical violence, reader is afab but no pronouns are used, maybe slight choking?
Summary: After being attacked you and Six find yourselves alone in a safehouse together that has a surprising lack of furniture
A/N: I haven't written in months and i have worked nonstop lately so this is late and a bit rushed! but i hope you like it there is a serious lack of Six fics out here
You’ve never seen shit hit the fan so fast in your entire life, which is saying a lot considering the long track record of carnage you’ve seen in your time on this planet. Quite honestly you think you blacked out during most of it, only catching bits and pieces of what was happening along with the bits and pieces of bad men being splattered across your face.
It was going to take weeks to get the smell of blood out of your nose, and even longer for the taste.
You glance to where Six now sits in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall to get a better view out of the window, and you want to push the stray blood crusted hair out of his face. “Does Fitz at least know where we are?” you question, pulling your legs to your chest as if to make yourself smaller to create more room for a conversation. Six wasn’t a very talkative person, you knew this from the months you had spent together. But fuck if you didn’t want to make him speak, make him say something to break the silence that had gone on since the moment he grabbed your hand and tugged you away from the crime. It’s wishful thinking.
“No.”
He seems perfectly collected, body relaxed with his legs stretched out on the carpeted floor, eyes attentively flicking back and forth between the laptop camera feed and the window. The only thing slightly out of place was the brief flicker of his jaw tensing, twice in succession. Six was raised and trained to compartmentalize any overwhelming feeling that he may feel, but the months you’ve spent with him and the time you’ve taken to analyze every movement he makes tells you that despite his demeanor, he’s livid.
You don’t particularly feel like poking the bear, but you’re scared and covered in blood that (mostly) isn’t yours, so you think you have the right to be curious. Unstretching your legs, you push up and onto your knees so you can hobble closer to him, waddling to his corner of the room so you can sit to his left. “Okay. Does that mean he won’t know it at all?”
“Maybe.”
He’s fucking exasperating.
The tension in the room builds with each second that passes, your annoyance and his silence combining into a thick, unswallowable cocktail. You sit like that for the next several minutes, occasionally glancing at him as the sun outside the window sets behind the mountains and the moonlight falls over the walls that surround you. Surprisingly it’s Six who reaches out first, palm finding its place on your thigh, the blood in your cheeks burning hotter when his fingers flex.
“I know you want answers, and the truth is that I don’t know them yet,” he speaks, voice low and focused. It takes a few structured breaths before you can look at him, lifting your head to level with his stare. There’s always been something between the two of you, something unspoken and untouched left to collect dust beneath the surface of whatever facade you had put up. But now that he’s looking at you with a heaviness you haven’t seen from him before, you know it’s different.
“It’s okay,” you manage to murmur, breath catching when his eyes flit to your mouth and his fingertips press harder into your leg. The leftover adrenaline from the night's events pushes through your veins with a renewed vigor, moving you forward until your mouth meets his, a sharp inhale coming from both of you.
Part of you wonders if this is how Six’s targets feel. He’s all consuming, plucking every single coherent thought from your head until it’s all him. How his mouth moves against your lips, his hand grips the back of your neck, how he guides you back until your shoulders hit the carpet. There’s a push and pull that has you grinning against the chase of his lips, and you know he can feel it.
No words are spoken as clothes are shed, frantic hands tugging at blood-soaked cloth before his hand slides under your back so you arch, giving his fingers room to undo your bra. You should be put off by the amount of red stains resting on your skin but nothing else seems to matter when Six’s focus turns to the button on his pants as you shimmy your shorts off.
The dim lighting in the room doesn’t give you the satisfaction of being able to look at him properly, the most of what you can make out is the outline of him as he leans back to toss his jeans, fingers reaching out to skim along the scars that indent his skin. Six seems to freeze at this, struggling to decide between what you assume to be fight or flight. After a moment he grabs your hand, bringing it to his mouth to press a kiss to the skin of your palm, his free hand tugging your body closer to him and readjusting your legs to wrap around his hips.
You can feel his cock against the inside of your thigh, moaning softly when he grabs himself in his hand and repositions to press against your entrance. “Hey,” Six grunts, the control being held in his strained jaw “I need to know that you want this. That you want me.” Shimmying your hips closer, you hum with thinly veiled satisfaction when Six groans, hand planting itself beside your head. “I want this,” you assure, shifting once more “I need you.”
That’s enough confirmation, and he takes no time pressing into your cunt, something akin to a whimper escaping your lips. You had known that he had to be big, just with the way he carries himself, but fuck this is much better than anything you could’ve prepared yourself for.
Your legs tighten around him as he thrusts into you a few times, gritting his teeth when you clench around him. “Fuck, honey,” Six grunts, leaning down to catch your lips once more. It’s less pretty this time, more knocking of noses and biting of lips, he inhales your gasps as he rocks into you faster, your back scratching against the carpeted floor and it’s so much.
“You make it so fucking hard to stay away from you,” he speaks breathlessly, huffing out a laugh when you cry out his name and dig your nails into his shoulder blades. “Years of training to be indifferent just for you to smile at me and not blink an eye when I have to do my job- jesus christ you’re taking me so well,” you rock your hips up to meet his thrusts, words blinking out of your vocabulary as his cock presses to the most delicious part of you.
Six rolls your nipple between his fingers before dragging them down the middle of your stomach, finally reaching where you need him most when his thumb presses down onto your clit. Pinpricks line your skin, legs trembling “Six, please, please.”
“C’mon honey, let me see it, want you to feel good,” he groans, leaning back to look at your face when you finally come, gasping as he fucks you through it. All of it is overwhelming, the wave of chills that wrack your body seemingly the closest you’ll ever get to tasting paradise. You can tell that he’s close when his hand presses to your throat and his head drops, fucking into you faster than before but with less rhythm.
“Inside,” you manage to speak, though your voice is hoarse. Six looks at you, searching for some hint of hesitation on your face but finds none. He follows soon after, laying his weight on top of you as he comes with a strangled moan. You lay like that for what seems like years, collecting your scrambled thoughts and running your nails up and down his back.
“Hey Six?” you say, smiling when his chest rumbles against your own.
“Yeah?”
“We should probably shower.”
He pulls back to glance between your bodies, sweat covered and bruised with some hints of blood “duly noted.”
colt meeting ryland's girlfriend!reader — ft. coltland twins au
Ding-dong!
The loud ring of the doorbell startles you awake.
Having barely registered the noise yet somehow fully alert, you peek your head out from the covers, eyes fixating on the general direction of the door like a cat that locked onto a bird sitting on the windowsill.
It's Sunday. You have no prior knowledge of receiving any visitors. Neither you or Ryland have any packages you have been waiting on. Speaking of Ryland, he would knock on the door to avoid waking you up even if he had gone out and realised he forgot to take his keys. Then again, there is the faint sound of the shower running, so it can't be him.
... Maybe it's someone who got the door wrong, and will eventually realise their mistake and go away. Maybe it's a neighbour who wants to complain about something, or maybe it's a scammer.
Either way, it's not something you feel like dealing right now. They should just take the hint and go away if you pretend you don't exist.
Exhaling harshly, you kick the blankets away with newfound rage, throwing yourself off the bed and stomping over to the door with full intention of chewing them out, though not immediately, as it could still be a relatively innocent person despite their lack of thoughtfulness.
Just to be on the safe side, you yank the door open with a tight smile on your face and hiss out as neutrally as possible, "Can I help you?"
"... Oh." The smug smirk drops from the man's face.
You blink.
The man leaning against the doorframe, and was casually abusing your doorbell until a second ago is a carbon copy of your boyfriend.
".... No."
Shaking your head, you shut the door, the small chain locked into place, palm covering the peephole just in case.
From the split-second look you got, the resemblance is uncanny. The eyes, the jawline, down to the curl of their lips when they are sporting a lopsided smile. There are some differences such as the stranger having slightly coarser facial hair and a more rugged style — though even the silhouette of sporting a jacket is similar.
Scam calls of people imitating your elderly parents or your friends or partners are common. Likewise, accounts getting hacked and sending malicious links to people's inboxes pretending to be the owner are common.
Not whatever this— this Mandela Catalogue, this No I Am Not Human, this Among Us, Imposter situation—
"Uh, Ma'am..?" The Doppelganger awkwardly clears his throat, tapping on the door from the other side to get your attention, "Terribly sorry if it's wrong, but there's supposed to be a Ryland Grace living here..?"
... Okay. The fact that he knows Ryland's full name means good. ... Probably.
".......Ry..!" you yell as you approach the bathroom, and a muffled One sec! accompanies the sound of shuffling before Ryland opens the bathroom door, hair still sopping wet, the bathrobe barely halfway closed. "... There's a clone of you at the door."
"Clone..?" Ryland tilts his head, and it takes a fraction of a second before realisation dawns on him. "Oh! Can you let him in? I'll get dressed super quick!"
... Okay. So he knows the guy, great!
You slammed the door in the guy's face. .... Not-so-great.
Swallowing your nerves, you crack the door open, hesitantly peeking your head out to meekly offer, "... Come in, please. He'll be with you in a moment."
The Not-Ryland closes his eyes for a second before he gives you a thankful nod as he steps in, but the way his lips are pursed and his shoulders shaking slightly is proof enough of how hard he's trying to hold in his laughter.
It makes laughter bubble up in your own stomach, honestly. The entire situation is ridiculous.
"So," you start, "Since Ryland is apparently wrestling his wardrobe and will take a while, I suppose introductions are in order," extending your hand for a handshake, you offer him your name, "... The girlfriend," you tack on the title.
"Colt Seavers," A calloused hand takes yours in a firm handshake, mimicking your format "...The twin brother."
"Ugh, figures!" you chuckle, running a hand through your messy hair, "I don't know my first thought was some kind of clone version of Ry, I really need to lay off sci-fi movies for a while—"
It dawns on you that you're still in your pajamas. Hell, you're standing in front of your boyfriend's unknown-until-now brother freshly rolled out of bed.
"I should get dressed!" you turn on your heel towards the bedroom, only to turn back around again at the thought of leaving a guest unattended in the arguably messy (you now realise) living room, without a beverage, no less. "Actually— can I get you anything? Coffee, tea—?"
"I'm good, sweetheart, no need to worry," He waves you off, moving to the kitchen himself. "Sorry for the scare. My dear little brother forgot to mention he has a girlfriend. I mean, I know our communication is a bit spotty sometimes, but sheesh!" He reaches for a mug from the cabinets, seemingly knowing his way around.
"Funny, he also forgot to mention he has a twin brother to me."
"Don't blame him too much. Things sometimes slip his mind — you know how he gets." Colt gives you a non-committal shrug as he waits on the coffee machine, "You can go change. Cute pajamas though." He points to your fluffy pajamas, decked in panda prints.
"Shut up," you half-heartedly swat at his direction, already halfway through the room before he finishes his sentence. "Cool jacket! I'll be back in a jiffy."
Whipping around suddenly, you support yourself on the doorframe, leaning in to whisper; "Do you have some embarrassing childhood stories to share?"
Colt barks out a short laugh, giving you a double thumbs up. "Thousands."
"Booyah!"
"I did not just hear the two of you plotting against me." Ryland comes up from behind you, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
i canNOT stop thinking about sitting on ryland's lap while he grades his students papers
18+, nsfw content
Ohhhhmy god. The inherent closeness and like, affection of being on someone’s lap? I don’t think I'll ever shut up about it. I love it so much. Chat don’t get me started on cockwarming- that’s like, pandora’s box for me.
But knowing Ryland, if you were to end up on his lap- be it cockwarming, riding him or just straight up dry humping, it probably would have started innocuously enough.
Maybe after he gets home from work, the pair of you curl up on the couch together, half watching some movie while you soak in the proximity of love. But he knows that he’s got to grade these mock exams tonight otherwise there won’t be enough time for him or the students to revise before their actually exam.
So maybe he decides to do some grading on the couch rather than at his desk,trying at first to do it laying down, paper proper up against his closed laptop so he can still lay back with you curled up into his side.
But that doesn’t last too long, it’s far too difficult and his neck aches from the awkward angle. So he sits up instead, leant forwards to use the coffee table. You shuffle, head ending up in his lap, cheek shushed up against his thigh. That works for a little while too before he gets uncomfortable and stands.
You whine, rolling over onto your back to blink up at him, a little sleep-dazed. “Where are you going?”
“Gotta mark these mocks.” He looks down at you, a little pitying, also kind of devastated by having to remove himself from your side. He’d mull it over for a second. Logistically, he’s got broader shoulders than you, it wouldn't be hard to reach around you to write on the papers. And he’d be able to see over your collar easily, especially if you slumped into him like you often do when exhaustion pulls at your bones. And the chair at his desk is one of those proper ergonomic ones, marketed towards gamers but he’d bought for the reclining feature so he could lean back and stare up at the ceiling as he thinks.
“Come on, sweetheart.” He murmurs, holding a hand out for you to take. His fingers curl gently around yours as he pulls you to your feet, shuffling over to his desk.
Ryland splays out his papers on the desk and sits himself down, turning the desk chair to face you.
He reaches out with those gentle hands, gets them around your waist, your hips, pulling you closer and closer until you’re in his lap. Knees either side of his hips, he pulls you down on top of him, urging you to shuffle in closer until you can slump into his chest with your chin hooked over his shoulder.
“Perfect.” Ryland murmurs, a kiss pressed just below your ear as he scoots the chair in under the desk, stopping just before it pressed into your back and getting himself back on task.
But the issue is, the pressure and the warmths and the soft huff of your breath starts to get a little distracting. Your fingers are toying with the strands of hair on his neck, he’s been meaning to get a haircut but you always seem to like playing with it when he lets the locks grow out a little more.
He swallows thickly, remembering how you’d pulled at it last night while he kissed up your thighs, his name tumbling from your lips in a breathy whimper. His cock kicks a little in his jeans, spurred on by the way you shift in his lap, a warm and pressing presence.
Rylands breath hitches and you pull on one of those strands, finger curling around it, tangling it up with intention. “What’s wrong baby?”
That tone- it makes him weak in the knees, head lulling back with your gentle grip. You press a kiss to his temple, then lean back to look him in the eye.
Your pupils were blown wide, a little hazy with want.
“I, uh,” Ryalnd fumbles his words, closing his eyes to breathe out heavily as his hands find their home on your hips. You grind down, a drawn out motion that has a gasp stuttering out his mouth. “This wasn’t part of the plan?”
“Wasn’t it?” You murmur, kissing along his jawline. “Just wanted me to sit pretty in your lap, feel your cock kicking about and do nothing?”
“Wanted to grade my papers.” He manages,
“Okay, I can wait.” You reply sweetly, pressing a kiss to his lips before standing.
“Huh?” He asks, a little dazed as his hands fall to his sides.
Ryland watches confused as you shuck your pants off. At first he thought you might just go back to the couch, maybe lay down in bed until he joined you. Then you hook a finger in the band of your panties and shuck those off too.
Your knees find their place beside his hips again, one hand braced on his shoulder for balance and the other undoes his jeans and fishes his cock out.
He can’t help but gasp, dick kicking in your palm. “Cold fingers-”
“‘S okay baby, I’ll keep you warm.” You press a kiss to his lips and lower yourself down onto his cock, allowing yourself one slow roll of your hips against his, relishing in the fullness before you settle back to where you had started. “Finish your marking. I’ll wait.”
sic fic please! Ryland looks after you when you feel under the weather, hurt/comfort style…
I loved this one to much to not respond basically immediately, enjoy. It’s my first time posting work like this on tumblr, so let me know if you like it!
Doctor’s Orders
Ryland Grace/Reader | Explicit, MDNI | ~2.6k words
Tags: sick fic, comfort sex, fever, female reader insert, explicit, he explains your own arousal to you and then course corrects
You have a head cold. He has a thermometer, two humidifiers, and a t-shirt that says THE MITOCHONDRIA IS THE POWERHOUSE OF THE CELL. Your fever-addled nervous system starts filing requests that have nothing to do with tea. He’s a very thorough caregiver.
[ Cross posted on Ao3 ]
The tissues are becoming a biome.
You’ve been aware of this for about an hour, in the abstract, dissociated way you’ve been aware of most things since your sinuses declared independence and took your ability to think in complete sentences with them. The pile on the nightstand has achieved genuine structural complexity. There are layers. There is probably a civilisation in there. You lack the energy to care.
You are breathing through your mouth. You hate yourself.
“Okay so the good news,” Ryland says, appearing in the doorway with the specific energy of a man who has just finished doing research, “is that you are absolutely not dying.”
“I know I’m not dying.”
“The bad news is that you’re doing almost everything wrong.”
You turn your head toward him by approximately four degrees, which is all you can manage. He’s holding a mug in each hand and wearing the expression he gets when he’s about to explain something, which is basically his default expression, but there are gradations and this one means he has a whole thing prepared.
“I’m doing everything wrong,” you repeat.
“The dry air alone.” He crosses to the bed, sets one mug on the nightstand with the careful precision of a man who has already knocked something over today and is not going to knock something else over. “Do you know what dry air does to inflamed mucous membranes?”
“I’m begging you.”
“It makes them worse. It makes everything worse. I turned on the humidifier in the hallway, by the way, you’re welcome, and I found your old one in the closet and it has what I can only describe as a concerning amount of dust in it so I cleaned it out and that one’s running in here now.” He sits on the edge of the bed. Looks at you with the focused attention he usually reserves for interesting problems. You are, apparently, an interesting problem. “Also you need to drink more water. That,” he nods at the mug he just put down, “is not water, that’s tea, but it counts toward your fluids, and there’s actual water on the other side of the nightstand because I anticipated you arguing with me about the tea.”
You look. There is indeed a glass of water on the other side of the nightstand.
You have been outmanoeuvred by a man in a t-shirt that says THE MITOCHONDRIA IS THE POWERHOUSE OF THE CELL in the font of a band tee.
“I hate you,” you say, and reach for the tea.
“No you don’t.” He reaches over and pushes your hair off your forehead, just briefly, just to check. His hand is warm. “You’re warm.”
“I know I’m warm.”
“How warm, though. That’s the interesting part.”
“Ryland.”
“I have a thermometer.”
“I know you have a thermometer. You’ve had it in your hand twice in the last hour.”
“That’s because I wanted data and you kept being uncooperative about it.” He produces the thermometer from somewhere. Of course he does. He’s like a cartoon character with inexhaustible pockets when he’s in this mode. “Open.”
“I’m drinking my tea.”
“After the tea.”
You drink the tea with what you hope is a withering expression. He waits with what you know is genuine, uncomplicated patience. This is the thing about him in caretaker mode. He doesn’t flutter, he doesn’t hover, he just. Waits. With all the time in the world and a thermometer.
You open your mouth.
He waits the full sixty seconds. Checks the display. His mouth does a small thing.
“Ninety-nine point eight,” he says.
“So.”
“So nothing, that’s fine, that’s completely manageable, I just wanted to know.” He puts the thermometer on the nightstand. “See? Data. Good data. You’re warm but you’re not broken.”
“I feel broken.”
“I know.” He says it simply, no performance around it. “That’s the worst part of a head cold, honestly. You feel catastrophically terrible and there’s nothing actually wrong with you. Your body’s just.” He waves a hand. “Doing a bit.”
“A bit,” you echo.
“An unnecessary bit. Very dramatic. Zero stars.” He stands, and you get a brief anxious sense of him leaving, which you will not be acknowledging, and then he just goes to the other side of the bed and sits down against the headboard. Settles in. Reaches over and puts a hand in your hair, easy and unhurried, like he planned to be exactly here all along.
“You don’t have to stay,” you say.
“I know.”
“I’m disgusting.”
“You’re really not.”
“I’m mouth breathing.”
“I can hear that, yeah.”
“Ryland.”
“Go to sleep,” he says, “or don’t, I don’t care, I’m not going anywhere.” His hand moves slowly through your hair. Outside it’s getting dark. The humidifier makes a soft sound in the corner. “I found that show you like, I can put it on in the background if you want something.”
You want to say something. You don’t know what, exactly. Something about how unfair it is that he’s like this, probably. How he somehow manages to make being looked after feel like a completely normal thing to receive, no ceremony, no debt incurred, just.
Here. Obviously. Where else would I be.
“Yeah,” you say instead. “Put it on.”
He does. You close your eyes, which are also, mysteriously, tired. His hand stays in your hair. The tea is good. The humidifier hums.
You are still breathing through your mouth. You still hate it. But the weight in your chest is a different weight now, softer, and you are starting to think you might actually sleep.
You don’t sleep, and after a while you understand why.
It creeps up sideways, the way the worst things do. One minute you’re a sick, leaking, miserable little gremlin with no thoughts in your head beyond the structural integrity of the tissue pile. The next minute you are extremely, stupidly aware of the warm weight of his hand still moving slow through your hair, and the line of his body next to yours, and the low easy sound of his voice when he murmurs something at the show you’re not watching.
You feel betrayed. By yourself. By your own ridiculous nervous system, which has apparently decided that now, fever and all, snot and all, is the moment to wake up and start filing requests.
You make a noise. It is not a dignified noise.
“You okay?” His hand stills. “Need water?”
“No.”
“Tea’s still warm if you want the rest of it.”
“It’s not the tea.”
“Okay.” A pause. The careful pause of a man recalibrating. “You’re doing a face. What’s the face.”
“I’m not doing a face.”
“You’re absolutely doing a face. I’ve catalogued your faces. That’s a new one and it’s very.” He tilts his head, studying you with the exact focused curiosity he’d give an unexpected reading on an instrument. “Conflicted. That’s a conflicted face. What’s the conflict.”
And because you feel terrible, and because lying to him takes energy you do not have, and because he is going to figure it out anyway, he always does, you tell him. Flatly. Into the pillow. With as little dignity as the situation already has, which is none.
There’s a silence.
Then, delighted, “Oh, that’s fascinating, actually, that’s a known thing, fever can absolutely crank up your, hang on, it’s a whole autonomic nervous system thing, your body’s already in this heightened state and the wires kind of cross, it’s not even that uncommon, it’s just your system being,” and you watch in real time as he hears himself, watch the exact half second where the lecture meets the room, “deeply unhelpful right now. I’m doing it again. I’m sorry.”
“You’re explaining my own situation to me.”
“I am explaining your own situation to you. Force of habit. It’s a coping mechanism.” He sets his jaw like a man recommitting to a task. “Okay. New approach.”
“You don’t have to do anything, it’s stupid, I’m sick, I’ll just suffer, this is fine.”
“You don’t have to suffer,” he says, easy as anything, like you’ve suggested walking to the store in the rain when there’s a perfectly good car. “That’s a wild thing to volunteer for. Suffering.”
“I’m disgusting, Ryland.”
“You keep saying that like it’s load-bearing.” He’s already moving, shifting down the bed, settling in close behind you, careful, unhurried, one arm coming over you to pull you back against him. His mouth is at your ear. He’s smiling. You can hear it. “For the record this is also fluids and rest. I’m a very thorough caregiver. It’s basically doctor’s orders.”
“That was the worst thing anyone has ever said.”
“I know,” he says, warm and pleased with himself and not sorry at all, and then his voice drops the joke and goes soft and certain against the back of your neck. “Just lie still. I’ve got it. You don’t have to do anything.”
And you don’t.
He doesn’t reposition you. Doesn’t rearrange anything. Just stays where he is, settled in close behind you, and you feel his hand leave your hair and go to the hem of your shirt. Your shirt. His shirt. One of his, the old soft one you stole so long ago he’s forgotten it was ever his.
“This okay?” Low, against your neck.
You nod. You don’t trust your voice to come out at a reasonable pitch right now and you are not adding that to the evening’s list of indignities.
He pushes the shirt up but doesn’t take it off, just rucks it up enough to get his hand on your skin, palm flat on your stomach, and the warmth of it makes you shiver, which is absurd because you are literally running a fever. His fingers spread. He just holds you there for a second, like he’s getting the measure of you, feeling you breathe.
Then his hand goes to your waistband. Your underwear. Whatever it is you put on twelve hours and forty tissues ago when you still thought you might leave the house today. He works them down slow, just far enough, not making a production out of it, and you feel his knuckles brush the outside of your thigh on the way and it lights you up like a wire and you hate your stupid traitorous nervous system all over again.
Behind you, he shifts. You hear the elastic of his waistband, the quiet economy of a man dealing with his own clothes one-handed because the other hand hasn’t left your stomach. Efficient. Unhurried. He settles back in, the whole warm length of him along your back, skin against skin now where it wasn’t before, and you feel him, hard against you, and he still doesn’t rush.
He pulls you back a fraction with the hand on your hip, closing the last gap between you, and then he’s pushing in slow enough that you feel every inch of it, slow enough that your breath changes twice before he bottoms out.
You make a sound. Small. Not one you planned.
“I’ve got you,” he says, low and easy, mouth warm against the place where your hair meets the back of your neck. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there, another point of contact, another thing holding you to the bed.
He sets a pace like he’s matching something you can’t hear. Something patient. He pulls back and presses forward and it’s the same each time, the same depth, the same slow drag, and he doesn’t change it. Doesn’t speed up. He said you didn’t have to do anything and apparently he meant that down to the letter, because he holds the rhythm for both of you, steady and unhurried and impossibly even, like he’s got nowhere else to be. Which he doesn’t.
His hand slides from your hip to your stomach and presses, gently, and the shift in angle makes your breath hitch. He feels it. Keeps his pace. Doesn’t chase it. Just lets it land.
The fever has done something to your nerve endings. Stripped them raw, left everything humming just beneath the surface. Every point of contact is louder than it should be. The drag of the sheet against your thigh. The spread of his fingers on your stomach. The way his hips meet the backs of yours and stay, just for a beat, before pulling away again. You feel all of it, too much and exactly right at the same time, and your body can’t decide whether it’s overwhelmed or starving.
Both. It’s both.
“There you go,” he murmurs when your hips shift back against him without your permission. Not praising, not teasing. Just noticing. Just letting you know he’s paying attention so you don’t have to be.
You thought it would take longer. You thought you’d have to work for it, that you’d have to climb somewhere, but that’s the thing. There’s no climb here. There’s nothing to push toward and nothing to perform and your body doesn’t know what to do with that kind of freedom except fall into it. The feeling gathers low and warm, not sharp, not electric, just a slow swell you don’t realize you’re riding until you’re already near the top of it.
Your hand finds his wrist. Not pulling. Not directing. Just holding on.
He feels the change. He must, because you feel it everywhere, the way your breathing goes shallow, the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers tighten on him. He keeps his pace. Same depth. Same unhurried drag. He doesn’t give you more because you don’t need more. You just need this, steady and close and exactly the same, and he gives it to you like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like there is nothing he would rather be doing on a weeknight than holding you together while you come apart.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, quieter now, and you believe him.
It breaks over you like something warm. Not a wave, nothing that dramatic. More like a long exhale you’d been holding without knowing it. Your whole body pulls taut and then releases, one shudder that starts low and rolls outward, and the sound you make barely qualifies as one. Just a breath with a shape to it. Just Ryland, half-swallowed into the pillow.
After, he stops.
Just like that. The second it’s clear you’re done, that you’ve crested and come down and gone loose and boneless against him, he stops, gentles you through the last of it with his hand flat and still on your stomach, and that’s it. No momentum carried forward. No quiet hopeful pause waiting to become his turn. He just holds you, and breathes, and lets it be over.
It takes you a foggy second to notice.
“You didn’t,” you start. Your voice has gone thick again, the cold reasserting itself now that the better feeling is fading. “You can. I can.”
“Nope.” He reaches down and finds the blanket where it got shoved to the foot of the bed and drags it back up over both of you, tucks it in around your shoulder with the same careful competence he brought to the humidifier and the thermometer and the strategically pre-positioned glass of water. “Go to sleep.”
“Ryland.”
“I’m good. Genuinely.” And the thing is you can tell he means it, that there’s no martyrdom in it, no scorekeeping, he’s just folded this into the same category as everything else tonight, one more thing handled, one more way of being here. His hand finds your hair again. Slow. Easy. “That wasn’t about me. Go to sleep.”
The humidifier hums in the corner. The show’s still playing, low, neither of you watching. You’re still congested. You’re still a little feverish, and you’re absolutely going to feel terrible again in the morning.
But the weight in your chest has changed shape one more time, and his arm is heavy and warm over you, and somewhere behind you he’s already going quiet and even-breathed and close.
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.
GAH I LOVED THIS SO SO MUCH IT HIT ALL OF THE FEELS!! they're so bitchy and snarky with each other, your honor i need to fuck the brat out of steve and this was just great!! they're idiots but im so glad they resolved it haha
Warnings: Injured reader, mention of panic attack? Grace is worried. This was supposed to just be an imagine but it ended up being longer than that. Use of medical equipment such as an oxygen mask, IVs, tubes, etc.
Grace's voice crackled through the comms, cutting in and out as you got further and further away from the control room. "Where... You? Not... cameras?"
The radio fuzz was irritating and distracting. You banged your helmet a couple of times to try and get it to shut up. Your breath came in haggard gasps as you trudged back toward the control room, vision blurry and disoriented. Every step hurt your entire body.
This was supposed to have been a normal, average check on the ship after passing through a minor asteroid field. You hadn't anticipated your foot becoming entangled in the tether, nor a stray meteorite knocking you clean off the hull and causing you to get yanked back by your leg. Nothing is broken, you think, but it burns like hell. You've certainly torn something. If it weren't for the whole no-gravity-in-space thing, you probably wouldn't be standing.
The asteroid field had knocked out the surveillance systems, so you were on your own until you got back inside the Hail Mary. Neither Grace nor Rocky knew what was wrong with you, and apparently the meteorite that knocked you off the ship damaged your comms, too.
"Y/N," Rocky's translated, computerized voice trickled through the radio roughly in a series of broken bits of speech. "Un... See... What..."
It was loud, and too much. Every step was like fire. Maybe you were close to some cameras by now.
Your vision blurred as the pain worsened. Okay, maybe you did break something. Hopefully not, but sharp, hot tears came suddenly as the adrenaline finally wore off and your body began to tremble uncontrollably from the pain. The tether was still wrapped around your leg, but you couldn't think straight to remove it. Logically, you knew you had to, but your head was still spinning from how quickly you'd been snapped back toward the ship.
Movement caught your eye, and you braced for another meteorite. Immediately, you relaxed. Grace.
He'd hurriedly put on his EVA suit to come get you, glasses askew inside the helmet. The second you saw him, his face dropped. You couldn't hear him as he tried to speak, but he was talking fast, brow furrowed. It might be a bit useless, but you gestured helplessly to your wounded leg. The utter silence besides your breathing was starting to freak you out.
Grace went into action like a sleeper agent, rushing over like he was a trained astronaut and cutting the tether free from you. The relief was only brief-- the pain came back full force and you cried out, glad he couldn't hear it. You couldn't focus on much of anything now; Grace clipped you to him and began helping you back to the airlock.
Once the door was sealed, you saw the stars begin to move outside as Rocky put the ship in centrifugal mode, probably using one of the handy probes you'd made him for just such a purpose.
Gravity, however, was the last thing you needed right now.
There was a sudden rush of noise and chaos as you both fell to the floor; Grace might have done a little better if he didn't have your full weight in the suit, but also if you wouldn't have started screaming.
You couldn't help it. You tried not to, tried to force yourself to stop, but the excruciating damage had left your leg utterly limp and filled with an intense pain the likes of which you'd never felt. Grace yanked off your helmet. "Y/N, I need you to tell me where it hurts. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong." He was trying to be strong, but his voice was shaking.
Gasping for breath and coherency, you managed to put together a string of words behind clenched teeth. "Meteorite knocked me off the ship. Leg got tangled in tether. I think it's broken."
Grace braced you with one arm behind your back. "This is gonna hurt, I'm sorry!" He swept an arm under your knees and lifted you, suit and all, carrying you to Armando as fast as he could. Rocky rolled along behind him, wise to stay out of the way.
"She might have a broken leg, bud," Grace explained quickly as he laid you down on the table. Several robotic arms reached out of the ceiling for you, eager to help as Grace stepped back.
Wildly, you snatched his hand. You two had always had clear, unbroken boundaries. Physical contact was limited and you stayed civil, but your jobs were to put the mission first and... whatever was between you both second. You weren't trying to be the next Adam and Eve, but feelings had begun to sprout regardless. You both tried to keep it professional. At least until this was all over, and distractions weren't going to matter anymore.
Now, though, you didn't care. "Please stay with me," You begged, feeling the tears run towards your ears as Armando placed a mask on you. A gentle gas began filtering through the tubing system to your lungs. "Don't leave me, Grace."
Grace hesitated, eyes wide, then reached behind him and snatched a chair. He swung it closer and sat down, clenching your hand tightly in both of his. "I'm not going anywhere. Promise."
You woke up three days later.
Or, it was around three days. Armando said you slept for 68.5 hours and it repaired a badly fractured leg, and that you'd be fine in 6 to 8 weeks. Light activity preferred. You were gonna be on some heavy painkillers. In no uncertain terms were you to even leave the bed without assistance, since the cast wasn't as sturdy as it would have been on Earth.
Inwardly, you wondered what this would do for the mission. You couldn't spacewalk, floating around would be a pain, or even getting to the control room in general. It was a tight fit on a normal day. With a cast it would probably be impossible. God, and Grace would have to help you. What you could do by yourself right now was limited. Just when you'd both decided that you didn't need any unnecessary proximity so you could get the mission taken care of without any distractions. What would this do to the ship? Would you have to remain in 1g? Or would 0g work, too? Would you still be pressing on to Tau Ceti E?
You tried to reach up and pull off the mask, but your limbs were still tingly and uncoordinated. You smacked yourself in the face by accident, clawing for the straps. Only oxygen was coming through the tubing, and you needed it off.
A small gasp came from your right. "Amaze! Y/N awake! Bad bad bad hurt. Better now! Grace not leave for long time. Rocky force Grace to change clothes. Grace!" You heard (and felt) the rumble of his xenonite ball as he careened for the entrance to the medbay, but you could only focus on getting the damn mask off your face. You were struggling with the strap, trying to get it off and vaguely aware of Rocky urging Grace to come quickly.
You were starting to panic. Your breath came in short, sharp bursts. All you could hear was your own labored breathing as the images of struggling for the airlock alone flashed through your head, your leg throbbing in pain as you remembered being violently yanked back towards the ship--
Grace. Gentle but fast, he slipped the mask off your face and pulled the tube from your throat, making you gag-- when had Armando put that in? As you coughed and spluttered on the bed, Grace was trying to talk to you. "Rock, just stay still for a second, okay? Y/N-- Hey-- it's okay, it's okay..." You heaved horribly as you struggled to come back to life, curling up on the cot. You felt an IV still in the crook of your left arm and shuddered at the sensation of icy fluids being pumped into your veins. Every breath was shaky.
Then you felt his hands on you. One squeezed your arm as he leaned over you to try and see your face, the other rubbed soothing circles in your back. You'd never been so glad for physical touch. "Breathe. Just breathe. You're safe now, Rocky's here; we've got you."
He sat with you until you were able to function a bit easier, although it came slowly. You're not sure how long you were disoriented. You peered at Grace over your shoulder, slowly flopping onto your back. He looked a mess, blond hair sticking in every direction and glasses ever-so-slightly askew. It bothered you. It always bothered you that his glasses were crooked. You always tried to remind him that farsighted and sloppy were two totally separate things.
Without thinking, you reached up and straightened his glasses with a frown. To your utter surprise, his hand found your elbow and traveled up to hold your wrist, keeping you close to him. You flushed, his deep blue eyes not breaking contact with yours. "Uh..." You croaked helplessly, "The morphine made me do it."
Grace smiled, something a bit lopsided but relieved as he chuckled quietly, almost to himself. He blinked rapidly as his eyes glistened. "I couldn't see you on the cameras," He managed softly, voice cracking. "I lost sight of you. Then Rocky saw it." He swallowed hard, caressing your hand still near his face with his thumb. "The meteorite. I tried to warn you. The radio wasn't working. He said it hit you, but after that we still couldn't get through. I went to get in the suit but I wasn't fast enough. Your leg..."
"Mangled," Rocky added sullenly, "Rocky had to learn new word. Leg bent in all ways."
Grace still hadn't broken eye contact with you. "Yeah. That. I'm..." You watched, stunned, as tears started streaming down his face. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I sent you out there by yourself, and that I wasn't quicker coming to get you."
"Grace," You choked, "It wasn't your fault. It could've happened to any of us. I was just unlucky enough for it to happen to me." You let your hand relax in his grip, letting your knuckles brush against his temple. "...Now you've gotta take care of me, I guess. I'm sorry I didn't see the--"
"Is no one fault. No apology." Rocky sounded irritated. "We take care of Y/N. Y/N can only walk in 0 gravity. Grace must slow mission down."
Rocky-- thankfully-- was entirely unaware of what was happening between you and Grace. You two had had moments before Rocky had ever come aboard, moments where longing stares left the two of you in awkward silence and the brush of his hand against yours felt like it lasted forever. It led to a couple of awkward but factual conversations about what it meant that you two were having these emotions in close quarters, that you'd eventually die together and that the mission came first-- which required utmost focus. Nothing could happen before then.
That seemed to completely shatter now.
Careful of your IV, Grace cautiously pulled you up into the sitting position and wrapped his arms tightly around you in a warm hug, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. You didn't hesitate to throw your arms around his neck, hiding your face in his body and getting as close as humanly possible.
Now Rocky noticed.
His five feet started excitedly tapping. "Oh oh oh! Hug! Good good good! Hugging not done alone!" A bit more quietly, he added, "...Can Rocky get hug too, question?"
Grace laughed into your shoulder as he pulled back to look at him. "Yes, Rock. You get one too." He held you close still, taking a deep breath and avoiding your gaze by staring at the fabric of the blanket. "Can I be totally honest about something?"
"What?" Your stomach twisted nervously. You weren't sure why.
He forced himself to look at you. "I don't want to wait for the mission to be over. I almost lost you today. If something goes wrong on this mission--"
"Oh thank God," You let yourself fall limp against his chest, surprising him. He let out a soft "Oh" as you chuckled. "It's been pulling me apart to wait. So can we go on a date now? Like with tube-spaghetti and fake moonlit water habitats and everything?"
He chuckled, rubbing your back. "Yes, and yes. I'll wear my best jumpsuit."
"What is date, question?"
You looked over at your rock-faced friend and gestured vaguely at the arm with his marriage signet. "Did you and Adrian have a courtship faze?"
"Yes," Rocky hummed thoughtfully, "Many days. Sing very long. Try to impress--" He went absolutely straight as he realized what you meant. "Amaze! Excite! Grace will impress you will tube-spaghetti!" He started doing jazz hands, dancing in place a little. "Excite excite excite! Finally!"
"What do you mean, 'finally'?" Grace challenged, taken aback.
Rocky ignored him. "Rocky want hug now. Y/N need rest, need sleep for big date."
Grace still hadn't let go of you. "I have an idea, but don't crush us, okay?"
"Rocky understand."
"What's your idea?" You challenged. Grace grinned smugly at you as he reached under the cot and pressed a button. Slowly, the cot began to sink to the floor. There was a mattress under you, thankfully, albeit a thin one. Grace held up a finger for you to wait as he stood and walked away, inadvertently freezing both you and Rocky.
You glanced sideways at your alien friend and opened an arm toward him. "C'mere, bud." Excitedly, Rocky rolled over. You felt the heat of his body through the xenonite. It was comforting.
When Grace returned, he had his own mattress and tons of blankets, all of which he piled together before gently moving you aside and adding yours to the pile. Carefully, he scooped you up afterward and sat you on the makeshift bed, which was extremely comfortable. "Here. Now Rocky can sit with you and keep you warm. You can watch her sleep, right?"
"Yes," Rocky answered, curling up in his ball as close as he could get without burning you.
You hummed gratefully, patting his ball. "Like my own personal radiator. What about you, Grace?"
"I'm going to let you sleep," He answered, confused. Clueless, more like.
You heaved a deep breath, pressing your palm harder against Rocky's ball for good luck. "Can you stay? Just for tonight?"
Grace hesitated a moment longer before making his way over, to the delight of Rocky, who began trilling excitedly. He set his glasses to the side, out of the way of Rocky's path, and slipped under the covers beside you a bit awkwardly. His cheeks were flushed as he refused to look at you. "Okay, yeah. I guess I need sleep t--" He froze as you scooted closer, pressing your body flush against his the best you could with your injured leg. Instinct seemed to take over; he slid one arm under your head, and the other around your torso.
Now, you were both fully snuggling close together, boundaries be damned. Beside you, Rocky kept the both of you very warm and cozy as the ship dimmed its lights. You dozed off as Grace played with your hair drowsily. In your half-asleep, medicated state, you smiled warmly.
Pairing: Colt Seavers x gn!Reader; Ryland Grace x gn!Reader
Summary: you find out your close friend and coteacher has a stuntman twin.
Words: 1.4k
Warnings: flirty Colt, jealous Ryland, brother banters, they/them pronouns used for reader
A/N: this idea was birthed from multiple tiktoks that suggest an au wherein colt and ryland are (sometimes estranged) twins. from the moment i saw the fall guy i have definitely been thinking of how he and ryland look so similar!! of course, credit for the au concept goes to the rightful owner, that of whom i do not actually know of but absolutely commend for this absolute masterpiece of an idea.
p.s. if anyone wants to be added to the taglist for any and all ryan gosling fics, just leave a comment and pls pls make sure your mentions are on😭
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“Ryland, have you turned in your re…port…?”
You enter Ryland’s classroom without a knock or a second thought, holding in your arms a copy of your monthly report. Your feet halt and your brows furrow curiously at the figure stood in front of the teacher’s desk. He was toying with “lava” when you caught him.
The figure turns to face you, startled at your sudden arrival. It’s Ryland, yet somehow, it isn’t? Something about him felt uncanny—unfamiliar.
Ryland wore a white tank top under a leather jacket with “Miami Vice Stunt Team” written on the back of it. With it, he wore light wash jeans, leather shoes, and a pair of sunglasses sat on his head instead of his usual metal rimmed prescription glasses.
Everything he wore screamed that either Ryland was going through an identity crisis, had a doppelganger, or was possessed. Even his usual stubble looked fuller, and darker, than usual, and his hair looked dyed rather than a natural blond—you scolded yourself for noticing even the tiniest discrepancies about your colleague.
“Ry…land?” You call again, uncertain if you should panic. He opened his mouth to respond when you hear another set of footsteps approach the classroom.
You instinctively turn, only to find Ryland. Your eyes widen while he calls your name, his hands resting on his hips. “Hey. Sorry, I was in the bathroom. What’s up?”
He seems to not notice the other presence in the room yet. That, or he’s okay with having a doppelganger. Ryland’s brows knit when he notices your gaze looking between him and the front of the room.
“Wh…?” He begins before following your eyes. His face falls just as his hands do. He begins walking with haste towards fake Ryland, who places “lava” back down and begins waving with a grin.
“What are you doing here?” He asks in a hushed tone between gritted teeth, though you can still hear him.
“You said I could come by anytime!” The fake Ryland exclaimed, still with a grin, and open arms.
“Not while I’m at work!”
“Come on, at least hug your brother. Don’t you miss me?” He places his hands on Ryland’s shoulders, then pauses. “Did you wash your hands?”
Ryland couldn’t help but scoff out a laugh, a smile appearing on his lips. “Stop it.”
He stretches out his arms to embrace his brother(…?), who taps his back twice in return before pulling away.
You hug the folder of your report to your chest as you slowly approach them. “What is going on?”
Ryland turns to you and rests his hands on his waist again, remembering that you have no clue of what is happening. He begins, “Right—”
“I’m so sorry. Where are my manners?” The other Ryland starts before the original can continue, holding out his hand as he approaches. “Colt Seavers, pleased to meet you.”
You take your report in one hand to shake his hand and absentmindedly introduce yourself as well.
“He’s my twin,” Ryland points at Colt before his hand returns to his waist. Your brows furrow again.
“How…?”
“The last names?” Colt voices out your thoughts; it was probably something often questioned. “We were sort of “Parent Trapped.” Difference is, our parents just separated and decided their pride was more important than us having the same last name.”
“Okaaay,” You respond and nod slowly, then turn to Ryland with a pointed finger. “How come I didn’t know you had a twin?”
“We don’t really get together often, he’s always off in other countries with…what’s his name?”
“Tom Ryder.” Your eyes widen.
“The Tom Ryder?” He nods, gesturing towards himself.
“I’m his stuntman.”
“I thought he did his own stunts? I heard he’s a dick,” your thoughts spill out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.
“I…legally, I cannot comment on that,” Colt remarks while nodding his head with a snort. You can’t help but chuckle at his ‘subtle’ agreement.
Ryland forces a chuckle while glancing between the two of you before his gaze settles on his twin. “Go home, Colt.”
“Home is in LA,” he retorts. “We’re shooting in town, I got a day off since Tom won’t be doing stunts today. Decided since I have nothing else to do, I was gonna visit my little brother!”
Colt reaches for Ryland to ruffle his hair which the latter quickly evades.
“Well, unlike you, I have work to do.” Ryland fixes his hair before motioning towards the stacks of paper on his desk. “So, you can wait for me at the apartment or…go somewhere else.”
He grabs his bag and fishes around for his keys, tossing them to Colt.
“You sure you don’t want me to wait for you?” Colt twirled the key ring around his index finger before grasping the keys in his fist. “The thought of you cycling home makes me sad.”
Ryland flashed a brief, fake smile. “Thanks for the concern, but I’ll be fine.”
“Which…I forgot—” He takes the keys back to get the keys for his bicycle.
“No, I wasn’t concerned,” He corrects Ryland as he is given back the keys.
“I actually feel sad for you that you only have a bicycle.” Ryland’s mouth falls before he rolls his eyes and turns away.
Colt cocks his head towards you while pocketing the keys, “What about you, gorgeous?”
Ryland faces his twin again and closes his eyes as his palms come together, the tips of his fingers pointing towards him. “Please don’t flirt with my colleagues.”
“I’m good.” You nod with a smile as you absentmindedly respond to Ryland. You snap out of it, drop the dazed smile, and shake your head before turning to Colt. “I mean, I’m good, Mr Seavers. I have a car.”
He motions towards you and whips his head towards Ryland. “See how they have a car? Just let me buy you one, Ry.”
Ryland shakes his head profusely while Colt returns his attention to you. “And please, call me Colt. In fact—!”
He walks towards Ryland’s desk to grab a pen.
“What are you doing?” Ryland follows him as he grabs one of the pieces of paper from the desk. “No—Stop, that’s my lesson plan.”
Ryland scratches his head as Colt pauses from his writing, looking at his twin with a guilty look on his face before continuing to write. He folds the paper to only show what he wrote, placing down the pen before giving it to you.
“Just call me.” He winks before patting Ryland on the shoulder. You can tell how heavy his hand was by how Ryland winced. “I’ll see you at home, Grace-y!”
Colt walks past you to leave the classroom while your hand remains raised, holding the folded piece of paper with Colt’s number on it. Your gaze trails his movements until he is out of sight.
Ryland sighs, looking at the paper in your hands while you turn back to him. “Now I’m gonna have to reprint that.”
“Cute,” you mutter while Ryland walks towards the other side of his desk, arranging his papers. His head immediately tilts up to look at you.
“Our mom says I'm definitely cuter,” he says like a child seeking validation from an adult.
“Oh, for sure.” You can’t help the surprised upturn of your lips; you were talking about the nickname, but you didn’t have the heart to tell him.
“You don't have to call him, by the way. He's just like that sometimes,” he mutters as if unsure of what he was saying.
You shrug, ready to tease, slowly walking towards his desk while looking at the piece of paper.
“I don't know. I might, after I submit our reports,” you ponder before looking at him. “Which, speaking of, you've done, l assume?”
He begins to shake his head before he’s even thought about it. “No, I'm not done. I need to revise mine, could probably take a while. I also need to reprint that page.”
You follow his gaze and look at the paper in your hands before you slide it into your pocket.
“Okay.” You raise a brow and hide your bemused smile behind your folder. “I'll just submit mine first, then.”
You turn on your heel to leave the room.
“Sure. Could I, uh, borrow your phone?” You pivot to face him again at the odd request. “My phone's dead and I just need to make a call or...block a number.”
You pretend not to hear his last words as he mutter them under his breath. Your eyebrows raise as you bend slightly at the waist to get closer. “What was that?”
He waves a dismissive hand and turns back to his paper as if the matter meant little to him. “Nevermind. I'll just borrow Colt's. Block you on his cell.”
You purse your lips to hold back a chuckle as you turn to leave again, pretending not to hear him once again.
GAH i loved this so much!! we need more coltland au x reader fics NOWW!! jealous!ryland my beloved oh how i adore you so <33 and you captured the brotherly banter so so well!!
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