#Dark!Cop!Steve x Black!Reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kurokoros · 2 years ago

Text

into open flames | (s.h.)

Rated: M (future smut)

Words: 16K

Pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

Summary: There’s a storm raging, winds howling and snow beating against the cabin walls. Outside a monster shrieks his name in an awful and warbled voice that sounds like you. And it shouldn’t be awkward, Steve thinks. It’s not the first time he’s seen you naked.

You and Steve are almost something. Almost lovers. And it feels almost like hell; almost romantic.

OR: A blackout snowstorm and a monster force you and Steve to take shelter in Hopper’s old cabin. From there, everything starts slotting into place.

AN: Yes, there will be a part two. Yes, it will be smut. It’s in progress and should be ready to post within a week. Reblogs are appreciated--nay, strongly encouraged.

Warnings: horror elements (the monster is modeled after the official illustration of the “bagman” from dnd). minor violence. reader implied to be shorter than steve. reader is a hopper but there’s no mention of blood relation. cop!steve but it’s for monster hunting reasons. S3 and S4 never happened in this universe alteration, but upside down shenanigans have still been happening post-S2

Chapters: Part One | Part Two | Part Three

The rhythm you’ve set stutters suddenly. A low, breathy version of his name rolls off your tongue, sticky and sweet like honey. Your hands are soft as they roam down his chest, feather-light touches that have his hips lurching off the mattress. It’s all hot and wet. His teeth scrape the side of your throat, a litany of sweet nothings mumbled into your sweat-slicked skin.

“Steve.” Your breath is hot against his ear, his name a sigh that has his fingers squeezing your hips a little too hard.

The stutter becomes a full stop.

“Steve,” you say again. No longer saccharine. There’s a wobble to the way you say his name this time, higher-pitched and sharp with what he immediately recognizes as panic. You’ve said his name like that before. On a rundown bus in the middle of a junkyard, with hellish monsters circling beneath the low-hanging fog, ready to rip you both apart.

You’re sitting up, then. Pulled away from his incessant mouth. And when Steve’s eyes snap open, you’re already staring down at him. Petrified. Your eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them, your pupils constricted into pinpricks.

“Steve,” you repeat, louder as a thick, squirming vine slinks further around your neck.

Neither you nor Steve move. In his chest, his heart ceases to beat as the fleshy tendril winds completely around your throat, wrapping tighter and tighter without constricting. Slime spirts between the coils. Gray-tinged sludge drips down your collarbone and chest. A sticky, wet sound breaks through the stillness. Your hands shake where they’re pressed against his chest, and in the back of his mind he registers the bite of your fingernails digging into his skin.

Like it’s the only thing you know how to say, his name is whispered into the space between you and him, so quiet that he doesn’t hear it so much as recognize the shape of it on your lips. It’s a plea. You’re begging for him to do something. Begging for him to protect you. But the horrified glint in your eyes keeps him pinned and unable to breathe as a gnarled hand reaches out of the black emptiness behind you. Long, boney fingers cover the upper half of your face. Claws scrape against the side of your head. A sick caress. All Steve can see is the tremble of your lips, still mouthing his name. And he can’t move. Can’t do anything at all.

The vine constricts, and you’re ripped away from him. The weight of you leaves his hips as you’re dragged backwards off the bed. Plunged into the darkness. And then you scream. One loud, petrified wail of his name that curdles his blood.

His eyes snap open.

A sharp, gasping breath tears from his throat, like he’s come up for air after being held under water. His ears ring with the shrillness of your screams. Steve lurches halfway off the bed, already kicking off the covers before he sees the moonlight filtering in through the window and reality slams into him.

A nightmare. It was a nightmare.

It doesn’t calm the frantic beating of his heart. Doesn’t stop him from twisting towards your side of the bed. Doesn’t stop the breath from being slammed out of his lungs when he sees you aren’t there. The spot where you slept beside him is bare. Empty. Still warm with the remnants of body heat. But the sheets are rumpled. The thick, lilac comforter is bunched lower on the bed, kicked off in a hurry.

The nightmare doesn’t stop.

Another terrified cry of his name splits through the silence.

He lunges for the bedroom door, stumbling as he bashes his knee against the corner of your old dresser. The door is already cracked open part way. It bangs against the wall as Steve shoves through. The screaming doesn’t stop, muffled from outside. There’s a body on the floor. Mike Wheeler. Sprawled out and snoring. And Steve nearly trips over the lanky teen as he races for the backdoor and rips it open.

There’s no one outside. Wildly, his eyes dart around the open space beyond the porch. Twenty odd feet separating the trailer from the bank of Lake Tippecanoe. The cold slams into his lungs. It’s quiet. Unnaturally still. The silence makes his ears ring louder.

“Steve!”

It punches through his chest. Far off across the lake.

His hand clenches around the aging railing in front of him with every intention of throwing himself into the thick layer of snow below.

“Steve?”

The sound of his name, closer this time, makes him flinch. It’s not from the woods though. It’s not a shrill scream that sends his heart lurching into his throat.

His head snaps around, eyes wild.

And there you are, tucked into the open space of the doorway, your arms wrapped around yourself and your lips downturned in a confused little frown. Sock-clad feet shuffle against the porch as you take a step towards him, careful to avoid any remnants of snow still sticking to the floorboards in patchy clumps.

“What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.” You smother a yawn with one hand, squinting at him. You shiver in response to your own words, your bare legs rubbing together in a weak attempt to chase away the chilly air.

The porch creaks under your weight, sharp and real compared to the agonized screams further off in the distance. Silence is all that rings from the trees now. The screams silenced. And Steve wonders if there were any screams at all. Wonders if it was another nightmare bleeding through into waking hours. Those have happened before. On bad nights.

They usually involve you.

It takes a long moment for your words to reach through his scrambled thoughts and pull him back out. “You weren’t in bed,” is what he manages to choke out, throat tight. Like that’s explanation enough for why he’s standing on the back porch of your dad’s old trailer in the middle of the night, chasing echoes and ghosts.

But you don’t question it. Instead, you send him a sad, understanding look that makes his chest ache. “Bathroom,” you tell him.

There’s an apologetic note in the gentle murmur of your voice, and he hates it. Hates that you can’t get up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night just because he might panic when he realizes you aren’t there. It’s not fair to you, but you’ve never once complained about how clingy he can be, how sometimes he hovers too closely.

Truthfully, you need that closeness, too. Something to stave off the rampant paranoia threatening to eat you alive. Keeping Steve close helps, makes you feel safe in a way no one else can. And Steve? Steve can’t sleep at night if you’re not there next to him. After the second time Hawkins went to shit, he couldn’t sleep in that big house anymore, not by himself. There were too many dark hallways, too many places for monsters to hide around corners. The silence was the worst. Every bump and creak kept him awake until exhaustion pulled him under. And when he did sleep it was never comfortably.

It wasn’t until after you both graduated that you and Steve started sharing a bed more often than not. Naturally, Hopper wasn’t happy about it, but after seeing the two of you rested for the first time in months, he kept his overprotective father speech to himself.

The far away, panicky look in Steve’s eyes makes your frown deepen. You know him too well not to recognize the jittery way he keeps glancing across the lake. More than just momentary fear at waking up without you curled up beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Steve says. “Nothing—I just… I just needed some fresh air. That’s all.”

It’s a lie and you both know it. He waits for you to call him out on it, but you don’t, and he wonders if there’s something in his expression that’s telling you not to press. Either way, you don’t ask. Steve doesn’t tell. And you cross the short amount of space between the two of you with near silent steps.

Only half-awake and still soft with sleep, you cuddle up against his side when he lifts an arm in offering. Both of your arms wind around him, your head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, and you let him pull you flush against his chest. Steve’s arm slides around your shoulders. A large palm smooths down your back all the way to your hip before coming back up. His lips burn where they press to your temple. You sigh, breaths coming out in warm puffs against his collarbone.

The tips of your fingers peek out from the sleeve of the too big sweatshirt you’re wearing, emerald green with Hawkins Basketball printed across the front, and your skin is cold where your fingers brush against his side above the waist of his sleep pants. A content sigh has your hand sneaking out further, thumb absentmindedly stroking a puckered scar. The first faint brush of your skin against the mark makes him flinch, but your touch is gentle, soothing in a way that makes him relax.

Under the guise of keeping you warm, Steve pulls you closer to his chest. If you could crawl between his ribs and lie there, he’d let you. Selfishly, he just wants you pressed against him. Needs to know that you’re okay. That you’re real. And he likes the way you fit against him, he decides, as your fingers curl around his hip with familiar ease, slotting into place where you belong.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Steve is still far away, gazing out over the water like he’s looking for something that simply isn’t there. The gates are still open. Contained, but open. The monsters that do slip through occasionally aren’t the same threats as when he was seventeen. Knowing that doesn’t stop him from being terrified that something could still happen to you, or the kids.

As you let him stew in peace, your bleary gaze follows his to where Lake Tippecanoe is frozen over and dusted with a thick layer of snow. Once the silence has dragged on too long, you shift your head on his chest, eyes on the side of his face.

“Bad dream?”

Idly, you rub your chilly fingers against his side. One of your hands slides around to rest on his stomach. Your pinky ghosts against the hem of his sleep pants, teasing the trail of hairs that disappear there, and his stomach tightens with the memory of what he was dreaming about earlier, before it all bled into something horrific. If he thinks about it long enough, he can still imagine the weight of you on his hips, taste the sweetness of you on his tongue, see the terror in your eyes before clawed fingers wrapped around your head.

Steve clears his throat when your nose bumps against the curve of his jaw. “No.”

“Liar,” you call him this time, but you don’t ask if he wants to talk about it. He never does. Not when they’re about you.

His breath comes out in a puff of fog as he huffs. There’s no point in arguing with you. Not when you’re right. Instead, he squeezes your bicep. It’s not quite a reassurance, but it’s close enough.

In lieu of thinking any harder about the nightmare that dragged him outside into the freezing night, he asks, “Did I wake up the kids?”

He hopes not. They all have nightmares of their own to deal with, they don’t need his keeping them awake as well. At the very least, he’s glad that he didn’t wake up screaming tonight. That’s happened before more times than he’s proud to admit. The worst one was right after graduation. The screaming woke Hopper, who burst into your bedroom with a loaded shotgun. Steve hadn’t stopped thrashing until his voice became hoarse and he dissolved into sobs. It was your fingers running through his hair that calmed him down, his head cradled to your chest as you whispered to him, nonsensical reassurances that might as well have been a lullaby. Selfishly, he doesn’t want any of those kids to see him like that. Like this. Pale and washed-out. Dark circles underneath his eyes. Hair disheveled. A wild and panicked look in his eyes.

It might scare them. Or worse, make them pity him—empathize, you’d always correct him. They’d empathize, because they care. But even five years gone, Steve’s still not used to being cared for—being taken care of.

Like you can hear his thoughts, you squeeze him a little tighter around his middle. “Just Will,” you tell him. And then, because you can picture the guilt in his eyes without needing to look, you add, “But I think he was already awake. I mean, it can’t be easy to fall asleep when Dustin snores like a bear.”

The casual jab startles him into a laugh. “Jesus, I know. You remember that one night at the cabin? The kids wanted that sleepover, and your dad and Joyce were on that date, and you let the kids pick the movies—”

“Me? That was not—”

“—and,” Steve continues loudly, hand dropping to poke your side for cutting him off, “they picked up those horror movies from downtown. Dustin fell asleep halfway through Halloween. Man, I thought we were gonna be, like, Texas chainsaw massacred or something.”

You giggle, and it’s enough to loosen the tightness in his chest. For now, at least.

The pair of you lapse into silence after that. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Steve’s shoulders to relax, for your hands to wander a little more than they should.

“Cold?” he asks when you shiver.

With a confirmatory hum, you step out of his embrace. Quick as you leave his side, the freezing air takes your place. The cold January night hits him all at once. For the first time, Steve notices the goosebumps prickling at his skin. A sharp inhale stings like he’s been kicked in the chest. You take a short, shuffling step backwards, while Steve stays rooted in place, frozen to the floor. The porch is an unforgiving chill against his bare feet.

Idly, he glances down at your own feet, enveloped in your purple socks. They’re the thick kind, wooly and soft, and he’d never understood how you could wear them to bed at night until the one time you didn’t, making him jolt each time your cold toes bumped against his calves beneath the blankets.

When he doesn’t follow, you frown at him again, lips pursed in a little pout. Both of your hands wrap around one of his, your fingers lacing through his seamlessly. Your chest presses against the length of his arm when you sidle up to him. So close, you have to tilt your head back to peer up at him through your lashes. “Come warm me up?”

The low murmur of your voice unsticks his feet from the floorboards. Your pout slips into a sleepy smile that brushes against his shoulder in a sweet kiss.

Steve’s lips twitch upwards at the edges. He lets you pull him back into the trailer wordlessly. With one hand, you fumble with the door, closing and locking it behind you as Steve’s eyes sweep around the cramped, but cozy living room.

The kids—nearly adults themselves now—are all sprawled out along the furniture and floor. Will is curled up on the couch, asleep now. Or pretending to be, at least. Mike is on the floor beside him, undisturbed where Steve nearly tripped over him earlier. Dustin and Lucas have claimed a chair each, Lucas with his limbs folded up awkwardly and Dustin with his head tilted back, snoring obnoxiously just like you said. Steve cranes his head to look down the hallway towards El’s bedroom. The door is open wide enough for him to see the shapes of both El and Max under the covers.

With the door locked and the kids all asleep, Steve lets you tug him down the hallway towards your bedroom. The floor creaks under your steps. The moaning floorboards cause the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, but your thumb rubs soothingly over the bumps of his knuckles, placating his already frayed nerves.

As soon as you step into the bedroom, you turn on your heel. Both of his hands are grasped in your smaller ones. Naturally, your fingers come to slot between his, and the smile you give him is sweet, sleepy and just a little bit sad. He follows as you walk backwards towards the bed, trusting him to catch you if you trip. You lead him to his side of the bed—his side, because he does have a side, and the domesticity of it makes his pulse jump—and settle onto the mattress, shifting across to the side furthest from the window.

Steve follows you down.

As he drags up the covers, you shrug out of your sweatshirt, dropping it to the floor beside the bed so you can slip into it again in the morning. By now, you know well just how clingy Steve can be in his sleep. Some nights, he likes to press right up against your back, radiating heat like a damn furnace until you’re itching to shrug off a layer or two of clothes, even in the middle of winter. Tonight, you’re wearing something dark and silky that leaves your arms and shoulders bare, and he can see the soft swell of your chest from the faint moonlight streaking in through the curtains.

The mattress is old. There’s a spring that digs into his hip when he sleeps on his side. And it’s too small for the two of you to be anything but pressed against each other. You wait for him to settle onto his stomach before rolling onto your side and curling up against him. You don’t hold him, but your sock-clad toes rub against his calves through his pants and your fingers draw shapes along the curve of his ribcage, fleeting and barely there.

The door is left cracked open.

There’s light filtering in through the curtains when Steve wakes up again. You’re gone, again, but the covers are folded up neatly, and that’s enough to quell the panic that instantly wells in his chest.

He isn’t used to waking up without you. Most mornings, you’re still curled up beside him, sleeping in until he nudges you awake before he leaves. Forever a night owl. Guiltily, he knows that it’s partly because he keeps you awake most nights. You’ve never mentioned it, and Steve would be hard-pressed to say anything himself, but he knows that his nightmares take as much a toll on you as they do on him. You’re the one thing that can quell the overwhelming fear that threatens to suffocate him, able to pull his head back above water when he’s sure he’s going to drown in it.

Through the cracked open door, he can hear you humming. Something low and indistinct, but vaguely familiar, though he can’t place why.

For several minutes, he just lies there, lightly dozing to the sound of you humming and the closing of cabinet doors as you busy yourself with something in the cramped kitchen. It won’t be long until the kids start waking up and grumbling about breakfast.

A glance at his digital clock has Steve realizing it’s a little after eight. The alarm should have gone off at seven.

With a groan, he pushes himself up, joints cracking from being in the same position for too long. He rolls his shoulders, his back popping as he sits up. Unsteadily, he rises to his feet, one hand running through his sleep rumpled hair as he casts a glance around the room.

He lands on the clock again.

Steve doesn’t have to look at a mirror to know he’s a mess this morning. Just from the sticky feeling of his eyelids, he can tell he didn’t manage to sleep much last night, even after he was sure you were secured beside him, your hair tickling his arm and the rhythmic puffs of your breath sweeping over his skin. He has to clean up before work. Usually, it’s the first thing he does after rolling out of bed. Showering. Letting the hiss of the water and the fog of steam drown out everything else for just a little while longer.

Your humming is overtaken by the hiss of something sizzling in a pan.

His feet are moving towards the door without a second thought towards the shower.

You’ve got his sweatshirt on again.

It’s an absentminded realization as Steve wanders out into the main living space. The kids are all starting to wake, grumbling and groaning and already beginning to bicker about something. Down the hall, he can see the girls rolling out of bed, awoken by the boys or the smell of what you’re cooking. You don’t pay them any attention, swaying gently from side to side as you stand in front of the stove, humming quietly to yourself.

With your back to Steve and a pan sizzling in front of you, you don’t notice him lingering in the hallway, leaning sideways against the wall with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, he just watches you with that overtly fond look in his eyes that the kids like to tease him about, gaze roving down your figure slowly. Your hair is draped over one of your shoulders, sleep-mused and messy, and your legs are still bare, the dark fabric of your shorts barely peeking out from beneath the sweatshirt you’re being swallowed up in. And Steve tries not to stare at your legs for too long. Tries even harder not to think about why the “Harrington” stretched across your shoulders has something possessive and hot curling in his stomach.

You glance up from the stove when Lucas and Mike break into snorts of laughter. The two of them are taking turns tickling the bottom of Dustin’s foot so that he kicks and snores louder in his sleep. Will is sitting up on the couch, smiling as he watches the others, but there are dark circles under his eyes, like he didn’t sleep much at all. Max and El amble out into the living room, El with too much pep for so early in the morning and Max with frizzy hair and a slight scowl. They plop down on either side of Will, content to watch the show.

Kids distracted, Steve pushes away from the wall.

“Want me to take over?” he asks, coming up behind you, his chin dipped down to speak directly into your ear. One of his hands slides around to rest on your waist. Pure muscle memory.

Immediately, you lean into his touch. There’s a small stack of pancakes on a plate to your left, a mixing bowl still filled with batter to your right.

“Not unless you’re planning on being late for work,” you say, flipping the pancake in the pan. You shoot him a look, barely smothering a smirk as you tack on, “again. Callahan’s gonna be up your ass all week if he has to come drag you out of here himself one more time.”

He squeezes your waist. Snorts. Phil Callahan has been up his ass since Steve started training at the academy after he graduated from high school. Clearly, he still hasn’t forgotten about all of those house parties he had to break up when Steve was still in school. Or maybe he’s just bitter because Hopper actually respects Steve half the time. Either way, he takes pride in giving Steve a hard time about anything and everything. Especially you.

Steve’s pretty sure he hasn’t gone a week without being told that cozying up to the chief’s daughter isn’t going to get him promoted, but he’s gotten damn good at rolling his eyes and firing back.

“Can you blame me? I learned from your old man.” With a roll of your eyes, you bump your hip into Steve’s, and he gives your side another squeeze in response. “You didn’t have to let me sleep in,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.

You glance up at him. “You needed it.” Simple as that. If it came down to it, you probably would have let him sleep through the morning, came up with some excuse for when Callahan inevitably came looking for him. You’re too good to him like that.

“Thank you.” He presses a quick kiss to the crown of your head, crowding you against the counter, but you don’t mind. Another pancake is deposited on the pile, and Steve’s breath is hot against your ear as he says, “Let me help?”

His lips brush against the curve of your jaw as you hum, pretending to think about it. “You can start the eggs,” you concede, biting back a smile when you feel him grin.

Steve kisses your cheek. Reluctantly, he disentangles himself from you, grabbing a skillet from the cabinet and the cartoon of eggs sitting off to the side. He joins you back at the stove quickly, cooking the eggs while you keep flipping pancakes, making enough to feed the bottomless pits lounging in the living room.

The kitchen is small. Most days, it’s barely big enough for one person to move comfortably between the stove and fridge. With two people it’s near impossible to move at all. Consequently, the two of you are pressed together from shoulder to hip, the softness of your sweatshirt rubbing against Steve’s bare arm each time you shift. It makes it harder to cook, but neither of you complain about the distinct lack of space.

“Your dad coming back today?” Steve asks as he starts scrambling the eggs.

You shake your head. “He and Joyce called early this morning. They’re stuck in Indianapolis through the weekend because of the weather, so Will’s going to be spending the night again. Joyce doesn’t want him home alone at all, much less during a blizzard.” Your nose wrinkles at the thought. “Can’t say I blame her.”

He can’t blame Joyce either, but it still makes him groan to hear. “And that means the rest of the little shits are going to be staying here, too,” he grumbles, scrambling the eggs a little aggressively.

“Don’t lie to yourself,” you say. “You love it when they’re all here.”

You got him there. He does like having a full house. It keeps him from being lonely and paranoid over every little sound at night. But he’d much rather it be just you and him, instead of six nosy high schoolers butting into his business and giggling and pretending to gag about Steve making googly-eyes at you when you aren’t looking.

“Of course, I like when they’re here. They don’t keep me up with that damn radio all night when they’re in the same room. I just don’t see why they can’t hang out in the Wheeler’s basement anymore. Isn’t that supposed to be their cave, or whatever?

You snort as you flip the last pancake. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.” He pokes your side and you nearly smack him with the spatula when you jolt. “Steven!” you admonish, but you’re giggling.

“Eww.” Steve looks up to find Mike staring at him from the other side of the counter, his brows pinched and his nose wrinkled in a look of disgust. “Can you two not be gross already? We haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Wheeler,” Steve snaps back, reaching into the cabinet above your head to grab a stack of plates. “You shitheads ready to eat, or what?”

It doesn’t take long for everyone to settle down with their breakfast. Steve’s question had set all of them off, making the too small kitchen an even more cramped flurry of motion as the kids dished up their own plates, muttering thanks before scurrying back to the living room to eat.

They’re all spread out comfortably now. Max and Lucas are sitting at the small dining table, whispering to each other and giggling. Dustin is louder, his hands moving wildly where he’s sitting on the couch explaining something to El, who looks confused, but continues to watch Dustin in apt fascination anyway, so captivated that she’s letting her eggs and pancakes go cold. Mike keeps interjecting from where he’s leaning against the arm of the chair Will is sitting in, just picking at his eggs somewhat disinterestedly, unfocused on the chatter going on around him as the rest of the teens start arguing about if they’re going to the arcade or the video store downtown today.

Steve frowns, brows furrowing in concern, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it when you knock your foot against the side of his leg, drawing his attention back to you immediately. You’re twirling a piece of pancake on your fork, letting it soak up syrup while your legs swing idly back and forth from your place on the counter.

“How’s work been going?” you eventually ask him, lips twitching when he snags some eggs. The plate is on the counter next to you, covered in whatever the kids didn’t take, and you’ve both been picking food off of it leisurely. “You regretting that offer yet?”

He shakes his head, angling away from the kids so he can face you. “Owens says we’re all clear. There haven’t been any flareups since, what? That big, nasty slug thing back in June? None of the gates have been active so far this year.”

Neither of you point out that it’s only January.

Steve pops a piece of egg into his mouth. When he looks at you again, you’re frowning down at the plate, watching the pancakes get soggier.

“Are you going to check on them today?”

“I’m supposed to.”

“I don’t like you being out there alone,” you tell him, finally looking up. “You should wait until dad gets back from Indianapolis.”

You don’t have to explain why; he knows. They’ve made it a rule not to go poking around at the gates by themselves, but with Hopper out of town, he doesn’t have much of a choice. He’d skip it, if you asked him to, but you won’t. It’s not that you think he can’t handle it. That he’s not capable of checking the gates himself. Privately, you’d confessed to him one night that you’d probably lose your mind if anything happened to him. And, fuck, Steve understands.

He wouldn’t be able to handle losing you.

“I’ll be fine, honey.” The endearment slips out without him meaning to say it, but neither of you pay it any notice. “What are you going to do without me and these brats bothering you all day?”

Sock-clad toes bump into his leg again. “I’m going to stop by the cabin, actually,” you tell him casually. “There are some boxes dad and Joyce need for the wedding, and I figured I’d get them ready for when they come back.”

“Which boxes?” A piece of pancake is popped into his mouth, a pair of questioning eyes trained on the side of your face. Predictably, his shoulders are tense, one corner of his mouth quirked downward slightly at the edge. “I can swing by and pick them up on my way back from work and—”

“No,” you cut him off, firm but gentle. You knew he’d be on-edge today. A little over-protective. He always is the day following the nightmares bad enough that he refuses to talk about them. But you understand. After the living hell you’ve both been through, how could you not. “No, you don’t have to. I can do it myself.”

The look he sends you is skeptical, so you reach out and wrap your fingers around his upper arm, squeezing his bicep reassuringly. When he still doesn’t look entirely convinced, you sigh. Your fork clinks against the nearly empty plate by your hip as you set it down, shifting on the countertop to face him.

“It’s not going to take that long,” you promise. “Half-hour. Tops.”

One of Steve’s big hands finds your leg, squeezing just above your knee. And if his fingers dip inward, brushing against the soft skin of your thigh, neither of you mention it.

He turns suddenly. Your knee presses against his side as he shifts to face you, hand leaving your leg to press against the counter next to your hip. He doesn’t try to slip himself into the space between your dangling legs, but he does lean in close.

“At least take the kids with you?” It’s less a suggestion than it is an attempt at bargaining. The timbre of his voice deepens, pitched low and close to your ear. The heat of his breath washes over your neck, that too big sweatshirt starting to slip down towards your shoulder.

“What? And listen to them bitch about it the entire time? I don’t think so.” That gets you a crooked smile. “I’m going to drop them off at the arcade. Then, I’m going to pick up those boxes. And then,” you stress, brushing away the lock of hair falling into his face, “I’m going to go steal you for lunch. How does that sound?”

There’s a part of him that wants to argue. Because weren’t you the one just saying you don’t like him being out there alone? But he bites his tongue instead. He knows how capable you are. And the cabin isn’t close to any of the gates he’s been keeping an eye on for Owens.

“All right. All right. Fine. You win. I’ll leave you to it.” He slumps sideways against the counter, back facing the kids. The pretty, triumphant smile you send him makes him feel just a little bit better about giving in so easily. “The chief and Joyce still planning on fixing the place up?” he asks, changing the subject. “Last I saw it, it wasn't looking too hot.”

An understatement, really. Last he saw the cabin, it looked one bad day from collapsing entirely. And that was before a monster from another dimension came crashing through the ceiling. That ceiling has been patched since, if only to keep out the weather and wild animals, but it certainly wasn’t a pretty job.

“Yeah. I keep telling him he’s just gonna have to tear it all apart because they need more bedrooms and another bathroom and it’s gonna be a pain in the ass, but yeah,” you finish. “They want to renovate. Something about it being remote, but not too far out of town. Joyce seems to like it, too.”

“Yeah? What do you think?”

“I think it’s… quaint,” is what you finally decide on, struggling to find a better word.

Steve’s lips twitch in amusement. “Quaint?” he teases.

You shove him away by the shoulder. “Go get ready for work.”

Everyone in the living room sees the way Steve’s hand lingers against your waist before he pulls away. The fabric of his sweatshirt bunching under his fingers as he tugs you a little too close, his head dipped down to whisper in your ear and make you giggle. The kids see it, but none of them say anything. Instead, they watch with snorts and dramatic rolls of their eyes. They do that often, when you and Steve act domestic like this. Almost something, but not quite.

You’ve seen it in the way Mike will roll his eyes when Steve’s flirting is blatant. How Max and El giggled at the way you slipped your fingers between Steve’s and lead him down the short hallway to your old bedroom last night. How all six of them are shooting you and Steve unsubtle glances, like they’re waiting for one of you to make a move.

Dating isn’t the word you’d use to describe your relationship with Steve. It’s too blasé, too casual for the way his lips wander across your shoulders while you sleep, for the way you run your fingers through the hairs at the nape of his neck. As far as anyone else in Hawkins is concerned, you’re Steve’s and he’s yours, but that hasn’t nudged either of you towards putting a label on whatever it is you’re doing. Sleeping together, sure. But there’s still that gap neither of you are quite willing to fill just yet.

Almost lovers, in a way.

What you have now is easy. The sex is good, when you have it.

And Steve is afraid to fuck it all up, just like he’s done with everything else in his life. He’d rather have you like this, halfway, than lose you completely.

Steve could put a ring on your finger tonight and no one would bat an eye except to tell him it took him long enough. And he thinks you’d say yes. If he asked, you’d say yes. But he won’t, and you don’t. And it’s a little bit like limbo, this in-between state you’ve fallen into. Or a waltz, but neither of you can get the rhythm quite right. Always just out of sync. Just off-beat. Pulled in too close, or not pulled in enough. Limbo. It feels a little bit like hell; almost romantic.

Almost lovers.

And Steve still lets his hands linger too long; and you still let him walk away.

Steve keeps his gun in the top drawer of the nightstand.

There’s a part of him that hates it. Keeping a Glock in the bedroom he shares with you most nights. In a house where kids who aren’t quite kids anymore practically live half the time. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, so he tries to tell himself it’s for the monsters. Just in case they come back. And he tries even harder to pretend that he doesn’t keep a gun in case the government ever decides they’re all too much of a liability. It’s always there, just in reach in case he needs it. A precaution.

He still keeps that nail bat in the trunk of his car.

You keep a shotgun in the back of the closet. Buried beneath the black dress you wore to Barbara Holland’s funeral in late November, 1984.

He’s just finishing the last button on his uniform shirt when there’s a quiet knock at the door. It’s open. Cracked slightly. Enough for him to hear the muffled chatter from the living room. The sound of your voice, even if he can’t make out the words.

“Steve?” someone that isn’t you calls out, hesitating before they peek around the door. It’s Will, chewing at his bottom lip as he toes the door open wider, just enough to squeeze through into the bedroom before he nudges it back to its previous position. He keeps his head down, eyes on the floor, that pensive and slightly haunted look still plastered across his face. It hasn’t really left him since the fall of 1983.

“What’s up, kiddo?” Steve asks, far nicer than he’d ask any of the other little shits in the other room. By now, he’s used to the kids coming to him for things. Sometimes serious. Mostly not. Will has done this before. Still a little shy about asking Steve for advice, or asking if he could pick something up on his way home from work, even if Will knows Steve will always say yes.

Steve spares Will a glance before turning his attention to the plain, black tie laid out on the bed, considering it. The sight of it makes him grimace. He’s never liked it as a piece of his uniform. He’s never really liked ties at all. They feel too formal. What he does like is the way you always give that tie a little tug when he wears it, a teasing glint in your eyes and a secretive grin on your lips.

He decides he wants to keep that smile to himself and leaves the tie where it is.

Will chews on the inside of his cheek for a minute, watching Steve. “Did you hear it, too?” he finally blurts.

“Hear what?” Steve asks absentmindedly, yanking open the nightstand drawer on his side in search of his gun. He releases the magazine, checking the bullets inside, and nearly spills them onto the floor when Will speaks up again.

“The screaming.”

Steve freezes, staring down at the gun in his hand. White-knuckled grip. His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth, and it simultaneously takes too long and too fast for the words to process. When they do, it makes him feel sick.

Will shuffles his feet, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he awkwardly stares at Steve’s back. “Last night, I heard it coming from outside,” he continues, quieter than before, wringing his hands a little nervously. “And then you ran out onto the back porch, so…”

The implication is obvious by the way Will trails off, but Steve still croaks out, “So?” Biding his time just a little longer as he struggles to wrap his head around it. He knew Will woke up last night. You told him that. But Steve didn’t think it was from the screaming—didn’t think that was anything but in his own head, because none of the other kids woke up from it, and you would have told him if you heard it. It was just a dream. A nightmare. It was all in his head.

“So… you must have heard it, too,” Will finishes the thought when Steve doesn’t. He stops playing with his fingers and lifts his gaze from the floor to Steve’s tense shoulders.

There’s a part of Steve that wants to play dumb. To tell Will he didn’t hear anything at all. But Steve isn’t stupid, or oblivious, or anything else people have called him in the past. He can hear the hope in Will’s voice. Hesitant, but there. The subtle relief that he isn’t crazy, or hearing things.

Steve doesn’t have the stomach to ruin that.

“Yeah.” Steve snaps the magazine back into the Glock. He tucks the gun into the holster attached to his belt, finally turning around. “It was just a fox, Will,” he says. “I saw it down by the lake.”

Will doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“It was just a fox,” Steve tells Will again, firmer. Trying just as hard to convince himself of the same thing.

The way Will stares at Steve is slightly unnerving. His eyebrows are knitted together, and there’s a look in his eyes like he knows Steve is lying. Steve clenches his teeth so hard that his jaw starts to hurt, forcing himself to keep a neutral expression.

Finally, Will’s shoulders droop, the tension bleeding from his ridged stance. “Yeah. Okay.” He still doesn’t look completely convinced, but any skepticism he still has is outweighed by sheer relief. “It just…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

Will waves him off. “It’s nothing. Never mind,” he repeats. He offers Steve a subdued smile before turning around and pulling the door open again.

Steve sighs, suddenly exasperated. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Look, kid, if something’s wrong, you can talk to me.”

That’s enough to make Will pause before leaving the room. He looks over his shoulder, less troubled now, but there’s a puzzled look on his face instead. “I know. I guess… it just sounded like your name,” he explains, then clarifies. “The fox. It sounded like it was screaming your name. That’s what woke me up.”

Ice floods Steve’s veins as he stares at Will, who’s already trudging back down the hallway, satisfied with Steve’s answer or at least content to drop it for now. Steve has half a mind to chase after him, demanding answers that he knows Will doesn’t have, but before Steve can act on that impulse, someone starts pounding on the front door.

The sudden knocking makes him flinch. “Shit,” he hisses, nerves still fried from last night. Steve runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it only slightly.

You’re already at the front door when he rushes out of the bedroom, cursing under his breath and making sure his gun is still secured in its holster. You’re leaning against the wall, smile tight as you humor whoever is at the door. He recognizes the subtle irritation in your expression, but when the floor creaks under Steve’s feet, you glance at him, smile slipping into something genuine. The kids all watch as Steve comes up behind you, exchanging glances and nudging each other like they know something he doesn’t.

It’s Callahan, standing on the porch with his arms crossed and a smug look on his face because he gets to chew Steve out for being late, which Steve should have expected considering it’s a little after nine and he was supposed to be at the station nearly half an hour ago. But the older officer isn’t alone.

Frankie fucking Cooper is leaning against the side of the trailer with one arm bent and braced against the wall over his head. Steve realizes why the kids were snickering when he sees Frankie’s eyes drop to your bare legs none-too-subtly, eyeing you up the way he always does when he thinks Steve isn’t around to see it—and sometimes when Steve is, just to piss him off.

The other man’s eyes snap away from your legs comically fast when Steve presses himself up against your back. His arm slips against the side of the trailer, making him stumble and straighten awkwardly.

Now, Steve never had an issue with Frankie when they were in school. He graduated two years before Steve, so they were never close, but they played baseball together, and basketball, and it was at one of Frankie’s shitty house parties freshman year that Steve first started getting to know you. In a way, Steve has always been a little grateful for that night, even if he ended up sprinting down the street away from the cops at one in the morning and the hangover left him sick for an entire day afterwards.

Working with Frankie has soured Steve’s opinion of the other man just a little bit, and the way he’s staring at you makes it easy for Steve to slip an arm around your waist. Protective, or maybe just jealous, even though he has no reason to be. You’re wearing Steve’s high school sweatshirt. His name is printed across your back. You spent the night curled up against him. Frankie knows it, too, judging by the way he clears his throat and has the decency to look a little sheepish about getting caught.

“Callahan,” Steve greets, leaning into you a little more than he usually would. He reaches up, bracing a hand against the doorframe as you shift, resting your weight against his chest. An old, petty part of himself rises up as he pointedly ignores Frankie.

One of the kids snorts. Steve has half a mind to give them the finger, but manages to restrain himself in the presence of his coworkers, even if the little shits deserve it.

“Harrington,” Callahan greets in return, trying not to look incredibly amused by everything happening. “You’re late.”

“Alarm is broken,” he lies easily. You snort, quiet enough for neither of the officers to hear you, but Steve still squeezes your waist a little tighter. Not that that it matters. Neither Callahan nor Frankie looks like they believe him. In fact, he’s pretty sure he knows what Frankie is thinking when the man briefly glances down at your bare legs. They don’t bother to question him though. “I was just about to head out.”

Callahan rolls his eyes and scratches at his mustache. “Yeah. Sure you were, kid. Hurry up and say goodbye, or we’ll have to report this to the chief when he gets back.”

This time, you do laugh. A quiet giggle that draws three pairs of eyes directly to you. Steve presses his lips against the side of your head to hide his smile. Callahan looks confused for a second, then annoyed when he realizes why that’s funny.

Steve slides out from behind you, keeping his hand on your waist for longer than necessary. He’s only halfway out the door when he turns around to look at you.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” he promises, keeping his voice low for only you to hear. He’s sure the kids are still watching, and Callahan and Frankie are definitely still watching. Honestly, Steve really doesn’t care if they are. “Stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”

“You’re one to talk.” You smooth your hand down the front of his uniform, plucking at one of the buttons, and he almost regrets not wearing that damn tie, but the pretty smile you send him makes up for it. “I’ll stop by around lunchtime. Pick something up from the diner after I’m done at the cabin.”

“Be safe,” you tell him, a demand more than anything else.

“Yes, ma’am,” he teases. That hand on his chest shoves him backwards, sending him stumbling out of the trailer, where he nearly crashes into Frankie, laughing. You pretend to look annoyed, unable to hide the twitch of your lips; Steve wants to kiss the smile off your mouth, but he can’t.

The kids all call out goodbyes from inside the trailer, some of them more colorful than appropriate, which he hears Frankie try not to laugh about behind him.

You linger on the porch as Steve follows Callahan down the steps to the cruiser parked in the gravel.

“You’re getting pretty domestic there, Harrington,” Callahan says as Steve pops open the driver’s side door of Hopper’s truck. The older officer leans against his cruiser and gives Steve a look over the top. Steve likes the insinuation even less than he does when it comes from Dustin. “Still gunning for that promotion, huh? What would the chief say if he saw you like that?”

With his daughter, is what Callahan doesn’t tack on, but Steve hears it anyway.

“Probably to mind your own damn business,” Steve tells him.

Callahan makes Steve pick up donuts on the way into town for being late. Or for telling him to fuck off. Either way, Steve doesn’t end up strolling into the station until half-past nine, arms piled with boxes from the bakery a few blocks down from the station. The girl behind the counter smiled at Steve when he walked in, immediately clocking his uniform and asking if he wanted the usual. Hawkins PD breaks less stereotypes than they do, that’s for sure. Though, Steve doesn’t mind too much about the extra stop. There’s an extra box of donuts in the backseat of Hopper’s truck, hidden under an emergency blanket. Something to bring home tonight.

Home.

He tries not to think too long about that, but can’t quite keep the thought from swirling around in his head as he shoves open the doors with an armful of baked goods.

There’s a stupid smile on his face when he finally drops the donuts off in the break door, but no one else manages to heckle him for it before Flo peeks her head in and calls his name.

Despite the routine nature of Flo gesturing for him to follow her, wanting to talk in private, there’s something about the look on her face that makes a foreboding feeling sink into the pit of his stomach. He chalks it up to the lack of sleep and his nightmare. It rattled him last night, and he had to leave you this morning. That’s going to make the day hard to get through.

Steve follows Flo out of the room, ignoring the look that Callahan and Powell share and the way Frankie snickers, like they’re still in school and Steve is being called to the principal’s office and scolded for something. He barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, not wanting Flo to catch him and chew him out for it.

She doesn’t lead him far, just a few steps out of the breakroom, away from any prying ears. Steve shuts the door behind himself, leaning against the wall with narrowed eyes. “Something wrong?”

The look Flo sends him is nothing short of exasperated, her lips pursed in the same way she does whenever Hopper asks too many questions instead of just shutting up and listening. Instead of answering she looks him up and down, scrutinizing him. “You’re late,” she tells him. “Hop is a bad influence on you.”

“Yeah. Probably,” he agrees. He crosses his arms. Flo wouldn’t bring him out here just to berate him for not being on time, so he tries again. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve received some strange calls this morning,” she explains, mouth still pressed into a thin line. “According to chief Hopper’s notes, they fall under your authority when he isn’t available.”

The tone of her voice lets Steve know she doesn’t agree with that. He can’t say he blames her. Steve is barely twenty-two. He’s one of the newest officers working for Hawkins PD and plenty of his colleagues don’t understand why Hopper defers to him so readily over officers that have more experience and a better track record. Flo had been the one to receive all of those noise complaints about the Harrington house when Steve was still in school, and while not unkind, she’s never let him forget it.

But aside from Hopper, Steve is the only one in the force who knows about everything that’s actually happened in this shitty little town over the last several years. And with Hopper away, there are no other options besides Steve when it comes to handling anything out of the ordinary. Nancy and Jonathan are both away for school. The kids are too young to be dealing with any this crap. And Steve tries his damn hardest to keep you out of things, even if he knows you can handle yourself just fine.

It makes him a little sick, thinking about anything happening to that trailer down by the lake and all those people in it that he cares about. Crowded and run down, but home.

Steve realizes he’s been quiet for too long when Flo looks at him expectantly. He clears his throat. “What kind of calls?” he asks, wondering what could be so strange about them that they’d fall under the category of things Steve needs to handle in Hopper’s place.

Briefly, his thoughts flash to missing people and murder dressed up as suicide before he forcibly shoves them down.

“Noises,” she says plainly. “Coming from the woods.”

“Noises?” he repeats. Skepticism all but drips from his tongue, and he’s aware of how much he sounds like Hopper in this moment. “Someone called about noises in the woods?”

Flo sighs. “The Mulligan boys have been calling all morning.”

She says Mulligan boys with a hint of distaste, and Steve can’t really blame her. There are at least five of them living down by Kerley, all with the same angular features and lanky build. They’re troublemakers, ever more than Steve used to be. It wouldn’t be the first time Steve’s dealt with calls involving them. Fireworks at midnight. Brawls. Public Intoxication. What’s unusual is that they’re the ones calling.

There must be a look on his face, because Flo continues, “they told me they heard something screaming out in the woods down by Kerley before the sun was even up this morning. Thought it was a fox. Or a mountain lion.”

“A mountain—there are no mountain lions in Indiana,” Steve blurts, needing to latch onto something other than screaming down by Kerley. The Byers don’t live near that road anymore. Neither does Steve, most of the time. But his nightmare is still fresh, and he’s never quite been able to scrub his mind of everything that was lurking in the woods there when he was still in high school.

“A bobcat, then,” Flo corrects, exasperated. “Or coyotes. I don’t know what those boys thought they were looking for.”

“They called because they think they heard an animal?” Steve asks, more to clarify than anything else. There’s still a tinge of skepticism clinging to the words. Or maybe he’s just being condescending. More likely, it’s false bravado. If he clings to cynicism and a barbed tongue, maybe nothing will happen. Hawkins is practically surrounded by miles of forest. Of course, there are animals wandering around in the woods. If he tells himself that enough times, maybe he'll start to believe it. “Thought that was the DNR’s problem, not ours.”

And Steve thinks about the black bear in his backyard that wasn’t a black bear at all, and it makes that churning feeling in his stomach just a little bit worse.

Flo doesn’t keep him waiting for an explanation. “They called because they said it wasn’t an animal,” she tells him, and Steve’s heart lurches. “Damn fools went looking for whatever it was to shut it up. They said they saw an eight-foot-tall wild man walking through the trees.”

As quickly as his heart leapt into his throat, he makes himself swallow it, forcing it to sinks back down to where it belongs. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face. It’s hits a little too close to home. A monster in the woods. The screaming he woke up to. The screaming that Will heard, too. Not just a nightmare rattling around in Steve’s head. Not a fox.

But he’s not sure how to navigate this without Flo thinking he’s crazy, so he lets his eyes roll, even as Flo sends him a disapproving look. “A wild man.” This time, he definitely sounds condescending. And he lays it on thick. It’s not the first time someone’s seen a “wild man” in Indiana, but none of those sightings have turned out to be much more than stories by drunks and potheads. Right now, he really hopes that’s all it is. “Did they say if they’d been drinking, too? I haven’t seen Tommy Mulligan sober since the tenth-grade.”

“Harrington,” Flo starts, and he already knows she’s going to tell him to just deal with it so they stop calling while she’s trying to read her book, or finish her crosswords, or whatever it is she does to pass the time on slow days.

“I’ll go check it out after I finish something for the chief,” he says. He needs to check around the lab first. Just in case. “If they call back, tell them it’ll be an hour or two. Okay?”

“Thank you.”

Steve starts walking backwards towards the front of the building. “I’ll radio when I’m headed to the Mulligan place. Have Callahan or Cooper meet me there.”

The clock on the wall catches his attention, and he winces when he sees it’s after nine-thirty. “Shit,” he hisses under his breath. Even if he finishes his rounds for Hopper early, there’s no way he’ll be back in time to meet you for lunch.

“Flo,” he starts, but she’s already waving him off.

“If she stops by, I’ll let her know there was an emergency call. I’ll tell her to wait in her dad’s office until you come back. Now get out of here.”

Steve doesn’t bother to tell her thanks.

The car sits idling on the side of the road for almost ten minutes before you finally work up the nerve to kill the engine.

A strange, foreboding feeling settled into the pit of your stomach after you dropped the kids off at the arcade. All six of them piled out of the car—Steve’s BMW, still well-loved, even if the kids have to squish to fit into the back now that they aren’t in middle school anymore, which is technically illegal, but between being one of Hopper’s daughters and Steve’s something every cop in town is willing to look the other way when they recognize the car—bickering about something that you didn’t bother paying attention to as you mentally filed through which boxes you needed to dig through. It wasn’t until you took the right off Denfield, the car creeping down that lone, dead-end road, that you felt ice starting to creep into your veins and churn in your stomach. It’s been a while since you’ve been out this far, this secluded from the rest of Hawkins. The trailer by Lake Tippecanoe is private. So is the Byers’ temporary house. But the cabin is a ten-minute walk through the woods this time of year.

There’s a part of you that almost wishes you had listened to Steve and brought the kids with. If only to fill the silence. The woods make you jumpy these days. Most things do, if you’re being honest. The only time you feel completely safe anymore is at home with Steve, or the kids, or your dad. You used to find comfort in being alone, but now the paranoia threatens to eat you alive when no one else is around. It would make you feel ashamed if you didn’t know Steve felt the same way.

It’s a gray day. The sky overcast; the threat of a storm looming overhead. A genuine blizzard, according to your dad. The worst of it always comes in January, and this year is proving to be no different. It’s only noon, but the lack of sun makes it feel like dusk.

You chalk the strange feeling up to how dark it is and throw open the car door. It takes another second until you can bring yourself to leave the warmth of the car, familiar and safe.

Instantly, the wind makes you wish you hadn’t.

You changed before you left: jeans, a thick sweater and a pair of even thicker socks, boots meant for hiking, and a too-big jacket you think might be Steve’s, but it was shoved to your side of the closet, so you took it anyway. If you try hard enough, you can almost pick up the faintest trace of his cologne clinging to the collar as you bury your nose into the warm fabric, blocking out the chill. The wind still makes you shiver. You curl your fingers into your sleeves, suddenly wishing you hadn’t forgotten your gloves on the counter as you were leaving. You didn’t notice they weren’t crammed into your pocket until you were dropping the kids off at the arcade, and by then you didn’t want to make the extra trip. Luckily, the cabin isn’t too far into the woods.

The snow is thick already. Deep enough that it reaches nearly to your knees. The idea of getting more makes your nose wrinkle, so you try not to think about it for too long. There’s nothing you can do about the snow. Truthfully, you won’t mind the excuse to stay inside, curl up somewhere with a book and something warm to drink. Or stay in bed with Steve for longer than either of you should. For now, though, you keep curses locked behind your teeth as you almost lose your footing.

There’s no path through the snow anymore. It’s been too long since anyone has been to the cabin, so the snow isn’t packed down in places like it was last year. It’ll make the boxes hard to move. Belatedly, you think you should have taken Steve’s advice and brought the kids with, but the whining wouldn’t have been worth it.

The walk from Steve’s car to the cabin is uneventful. There are animals skittering through the trees, small mammals that are moving too fast for you to keep an eye on, and the constant chatter calms you.

You’re careful as you step over the trip wire running along the tree line, still in place after all these years. A precaution, your dad calls it, even though there’s nothing in that cabin aside from storage items that have been forgotten for years. Nothing worth stealing, at the very least.

The cabin looks worse than the last time you saw it, even from the outside. The shingles are starting to fall. Parts of the wall look like they’re finally starting to rot, giving in after years of not being properly taken care of. Paint won’t be able to fix it. You’ll have to tear the walls down when you fix the place up. If you can even convince your dad to tear the place apart. At least the windows are still intact. If snow or animals were getting inside, you’d just have more problems to worry about.

The porch practically groans under you as you reach the steps.

Your fingers are starting to feel numb by the time you fish the key out of your pocket. The lock sticks when you try to turn it, but finally gives as you shove your weight against the door, forcing it open.

The wood floors creak under your boots as you walk deeper into the cabin. Dust coats the room in a fine layer. The floors. The furniture. It tickles you nose and makes your face scrunch with a sneeze that doesn’t quite come. There’s still some debris on the floor. Broken glass and splintered wood from when that monster came crashing through the roof. Hopper patched the ceiling, but didn’t sweep the floor. Instead, he just left the cabin to rot. Frozen in time in the months it’s been left unoccupied. It isn’t nearly as bad as it had been before El lived here back in 1984, but even a brief glance around the room tells you it needs a deep cleaning come spring.

It takes some effort to slide the chair and rug out of the way so you can pry open the hatch in the floor. The dusty, moth-bitten chair makes you grimace as you touch it, so you shove it aside as quickly as you can. The rug is kicked aside and shoved into a sad heap. It’s stained with something dark. Blood, maybe. Or some kind of thick, otherworldly ooze that makes your stomach twist sickly.

The box you’re looking for is buried in the storage space beneath the floor. Tucked between a box labeled “Nam” and a stained one with “43” scrawled across the side. The box you finally drag out is well kept. Plastic instead of cardboard. And when you pop the lid to make sure it’s the right one, you can’t help the gentle smile that curves your lips when you see the photo album tucked neatly on top. You’ll have to look through it later, after the kids have gone to sleep.

There’s a second box that you have to drag out, wincing as porcelain rattles inside. Old silverware clangs noisily as you deposit the box on the floor beside the storage hole. A quick peek inside shows that none of the dishes have broken. They’re fancy. All tucked into a pretty case. Sterling silver and the kind of plates that are too delicate to use in almost any situation, but you heard your dad mention them to Joyce in passing once, and thought you’d surprise them by getting them all cleaned up before the wedding.

Maybe you’ll be able to get El and Will to help you clean them up.

Both boxes are shoved to the side as you close up the storage space again, making sure the cover is sealed tight, just in case.

As you stand, you dust off your hands, lips pursing as you glance at the pair of boxes. You won’t be able to carry both at once without struggling. And the last thing you want is to haul those dishes through the woods only to drop them all halfway to the car. Resigned to taking two trips there and back, you grab the one with the dishes first.

Again, they rattle as you pick it up, huffing at the weight. And, again, you wonder if maybe you should have brought the kids with you for help. Lucas, at least, is sweet enough that he probably would have offered to help even without you asking. Mike and Dustin wouldn’t have been nearly as agreeable, though. And if you brought one with you, you’d have to deal with the other five as well. After everything that’s happened, the party rarely lets one person go off without the others. Lucas going with you wouldn’t have changed that.

You leave the door unlocked behind you after you jiggle it shut, unable to grab the key with the box in your arms and unwilling to put it down. It shouldn’t matter. You’ll have to come back anyway, and the chances of anyone else slipping into the cabin in the ten minutes you’ll be gone is slim, if not impossible. The cabin is well hidden, and there shouldn’t be anyone wandering around this part of the woods anyway.

It's difficult to get a firm grip on the heavy box in your arms, and your pace is slower than you’d like it to be, but you make it back into the woods without tripping the wire. Even in the faint light, your path is simple enough to follow. The matted down snow makes it easier to move, your steps more stable as you walk back to the road. The crunch of snow and the chattering of animals slip into a comfortable background noise.

It happens suddenly.

All at once, the forest goes silent. The chatter of birds and rodents stops abruptly. Every hair on your body seems to stand on end as you freeze mid-step, clutching the box tighter. There’s an unnatural stillness in the air, one you can’t quite explain. It feels wrong.

There was something Benny used to tell you when you worked at the diner—before everything. He was friends with hunters, and they used to come in, tell their stories. And they all said the same thing. The woods are never supposed to be silent. Quiet, yes, but never silent.

Still frozen, you strain to listen for anything, but there’s nothing but the faint howl of the wind and the crunching of snow under your boots when you shift your weight.

A strange sound comes from further into the trees to your left, quiet and muffled, almost like crying. Immediately, you want to run, instinct driving you to move, but your feet won’t unstick from where they’ve sunken into the snow. The noise whispers through the trees again. A whimper. Childlike and frightened. Your first thought is of Will all those years ago. A child lost in the woods. Scared. Freezing in the cold. Alone.

And you don’t think about it as you take a step off the path you’ve made. The porcelain plates clatter together, rattling in the otherwise still air.

Another whimper.

“Hello?” you call out automatically, voice a little bit shaky.

Another step.

The snow crunches under your feet. You don’t call out again, struggling to listen for those quiet cries, and you make it a dozen steps into the covered brush before you freeze up again. The whimpering is just as quiet as when you first heard it, so soft that it’s hard to pick up beneath the wind. Soft enough that you didn’t notice it right away.

The whimpers aren’t changing. Not in pitch. Not in length. Not in the time between them. It’s the same sound over and over, like a tape on loop, or one that’s gotten stuck and keeps repeating the same word, broken.

Again, that whimpering sound filters through the trees, right in front of you.

The wrongness of it is what makes you take a shuffling step back the way you came. Your pulse jumps. Ice fills your stomach, churning sickly. You don’t notice your breath quickening until it clouds the air in front of you, labored and heavy.

Slowly, you turn to the right, back towards the path you came from.

And then you feel it. The heaviness that comes with being watched.

Your head snaps up.

A pair of milky, silver eyes are already staring back at you. Beneath the waning light, they glow, large and set deep behind thick, matted hair, grizzled and stringy. Long, spindly fingers wrap around the trunk of a large oak tree. Claws the size of your fingers dig into the bark, leaving deep lacerations behind.

The air is slammed from your lungs. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. Those eyes lock onto yours, unblinking and so, so large, and it’s like you’ve been doused in freezing water. All at once, the pieces of you begin to shut down and lock up. The seconds bleed together, blurring and seeming to drag on forever.

It—whatever it is—is hunched over, half-hidden behind the tree and trying to make itself look smaller. Limbs are tucked against a grayish, naked torso. Pale and veiny. Built similar to the Demogorgon from years ago. Like you, it doesn’t move, so still you’d think it was some kind of sick hallucination if you believed your mind could ever conjure something so horrific.

Then, the creature cocks its head to the side, slowly. In your own voice, just like you did minutes ago, it calls out, “Hello?”

Time slams back into motion. Your weight shifts suddenly. Gravity rocks your heel back to the ground. Snow crunches beneath your boot. A twig snaps. The creature’s limbs unfurl as it stands, arms and legs unnatural and long, claws dragging against the top of the snow as it rises to a height much taller than you. Still hunched over, its back curved dramatically, with its spine bulging through that mottled, gray skin. Wiry, stiff spines protrude from each vertebra.

“Hello?” it calls out again, taking a step out from behind the tree.

The wind whistles through the trees, blowing your hair forward into your face. The stringy locks covering the creature's face shift with the gust. A maw of needle-like, crooked teeth. Its jaw cracks open. It screams for you, a horrific wail, drawn out unnervingly. “Steeeeve?”

The cardboard box you’re carrying crashes to the ground. Inside, porcelain plates shatter into pieces. The sound of broken glass echoes through the empty trees, splintering the silence. Before the monster can take another step, you whirl around and bolt.

Searching the forest behind the Mulligan property ended up being nothing more than a waste of time. Steve searched the woods with Callahan and Frankie Cooper for hours, trudging through knee-deep snow and trying not to freeze his ass off because Tommy fucking Mulligan thought he saw a monster in the woods. And Steve had believed it, too. Between his already frayed nerves and his own experiences with monsters, Steve would have been a fool not to take the claim seriously.

Fat lot of good that did him.

There wasn’t anything behind the Mulligan house. Not footprints. Not fleshy, rotting portals in trees, or oozing slime. No wild men. Just a half-eaten deer carcass and the smell of coyote piss. Tommy Mulligan hadn’t sobered by the time Steve reached the farm off Kerley. Technically, he hadn’t even stopped drinking. But he still insisted that he’d seen something lurking near the tree line. Too tall to be a man.

Callahan thought it was teenagers fucking around. Steve thought it was just the damn coyotes. Frankie nudged Steve in the ribs and suggested it might be a black bear, and Steve had to swallow down the acrid taste of vomit that welled up in the back of his throat.

When Steve finally gets back to the station, the sun is already starting to set. It’s low in the sky, and the already overcast day is only getting darker as the storm clouds start to roll in from the West. Snow has been falling for over an hour now, wispy flakes dusting the ground and growing thicker by the minute. There’s a solid inch or two of fresh snow in the parking lot, just enough to make the ground slick.

It’ll be a pain in the ass to deal with tomorrow, for sure.

He shoves open the front door with more force than he means to, cold and irritated and hungry—because dammit he missed lunch with you to stumble through the woods with Callahan on a wild goose chase. Of all things, that’s the worst part. Steve has gone out on bogus calls before, ones that waste his time and amount to nothing, but it’s one of the first times he hasn’t been able to meet you for lunch when you’ve promised to stop by. He always makes time for you, when he can.

Steve shakes off the snow clinging to his hair as he steps into the station. Automatically, he’s sweeping the room with his eyes, looking for you in the nearly empty room. You’re not sitting at his desk, like you do sometimes while you wait, leaving him little notes on sticky pads for him to find later. And your coat isn’t hanging from the rack. He can’t see down the hall into Hopper’s office, but somehow, he already knows you aren’t there.

Disappointment sits heavy in his chest, but Steve can’t blame you for going home already. You must have stopped by hours ago and gotten sick of waiting for him to come back from the call out at the Mulligan place. Sometimes, when you have the day off, you’ve lingered longer waiting for him to come back, but over five hours is a lot to ask.

“She’s not here, Casanova.”

The voice makes him flinch. Steve’s head snaps sideways to the desk where Flo is usually sat taking calls. Flo isn’t there though. Instead, it’s the lanky brunette that’s going to be taking Flo’s position as secretary come spring when the older woman is set to retire. She’s lounging back in her seat, feet kicked up on the desk as she chews bubblegum, looking bored out of her mind. Robin, he remembers. A year or two younger than Steve. She graduated from Hawkins High a few years back, went off to Berkeley, if he remembers right. She’s just a temp right now, working for winter and summer break while she’s in town visiting family.

It takes a second longer for her words to register. “What?”

Robin rolls her eyes. Her gum pops loudly. Steve has only been in the building for a matter of minutes and she already seems exasperated with his mere presence. “Your girlfriend,” she clarifies, speaking slowly and enunciating obnoxiously, “isn’t here. She’s not hiding under your desk or whatever it is you’re thinking.” There’s an implication there that she only catches after one of Steve’s eyebrows lifts towards his hairline, and her expression twists from boredom to one of utter disgust. “Oh, gross. I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.”

Any other day, he might have laughed at the look on her face, but there’s something about what Robin says that trips him up before he can.

“What do you mean she’s not here?” he asks, a little redundantly. He guessed as much when he walked in. That’s not the problem. It’s the fact that she thought she needed to tell him that doesn’t sit right with him. Robin doesn’t come in until after three, when Flo leaves for the day. Usually, you’re gone by then anyway. Though, you’ve met Robin a few times when you’ve stopped during the afternoons, or dropped something off on those late nights when Steve works the midnight shift.

His question is rewarded with another eyeroll. This time, she even sighs heavily, like answering him is a chore. “What do you think it means, dumbass? She didn’t stop by today.” The disinterest in her expression shifts into an odd mix of amusement and sympathy. “You’re not having some kind of lover’s quarrel, are you?”

But Steve isn’t listening, still caught on, “she didn’t stop by?”

“Nope,” Robin pops the ‘p’. “And she always stops by, according to Florence—unless she can’t stop by, in which case you always make sure to mention it to someone—so whatever it is you did, you might want to hurry up and think of an apology.” Robin leans her chin on her palms, brows furrowing as she starts to ramble. “We’re talking grade-A groveling. Flowers. Dinner. The whole shebang. Because wow, you will not be doing any better than what you have now, Harrington.”

She doesn’t seem to notice that Steve still isn’t listening, or that he hasn’t moved at all since she started talking. Steve is frozen in front of her desk, eyes wide and a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Car trouble. It must have been car trouble. Or the kids whined until you gave in and hung out with them at the arcade all day. They’ve done that before. And you’re always a sucker for it, even worse than he is. You’d do anything for those kids, after all. You probably lost track of time, either with the kids or at the cabin. You’ve done that before, too. Sometimes, you get so wrapped up in what you’re doing that you don’t even realize how much time has passed. It’s one of those little things he loves about you.

It’s not until she changes the subject that his brain catches up with the conversation. “Also, you need to tell your children to stop calling the station.” She’s stopped grinning at him in that smug way. Instead, she just looks irritated. “We don’t need a bunch of teenagers asking for you and whining about needing a ride home on the emergency line, which is, you know, for emergency situations only. Also, aren’t they like seventeen or something? Why do they even need rides anymore? Why are you friends with so many children?” The rapid-fire questions only make him more confused. And Robin still doesn’t stop talking. “I had to tell them we’d send an officer to their houses to tell their parents to get them to knock it off. Seriously, Harrington, that shit cannot—hello! I’m talking to you!”

Steve isn’t listening anymore. He’s already halfway to his desk across the room before he even realizes he was moving. And then the radio the kids gifted him one year for Christmas is being yanked out of where he stashed it in one of the drawers this morning. It crackles to life as he turns it on.

“Hey! Dumbasses!” he snaps into the receiver, holding down the button so they can hear him. “What did I tell you about calling the station for stupid things when I’m at work, huh? You little shits are gonna get me fired one day.”

He takes his thumb off of the speaker button and waits for all of them to start chiming in with their excuses, and then frowns when they don’t.

Eventually, the radio does crackle, the signal somewhat weak with the distance. “Steve?” one of the kids asks. Only one of them. They aren’t all talking over each other, for once, and that only makes him feel sicker. And they sound scared, quiet and timid. More than Steve’s heard in a long time.

“Will?” he asks after a second, concern thick in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

The radio crackles with silence again. “Is…” Will starts, then stops. “Is she with you?” He doesn’t bother clarifying who, but Steve knows. “She dropped us off at the arcade before lunch and told us she’d pick us up in a few hours, but she hasn’t come back yet. We thought maybe she just stayed late with you after you guys got lunch, but…”

“She didn’t pick you up?” Steve repeats, strained, voice tight.

More silence. “No. Did… is she not with you?” Will’s voice is slightly higher than usual with the beginning note of panic.

Steve wets his lips. “She didn’t stop by earlier.”

“Oh.”

Steve’s hands are starting to shake. Will doesn’t say anything else, and Steve doesn’t want the kids to panic, so he forces himself to say something even mildly reassuring. “Shit. Look, she—she probably just lost track of time at the cabin? Right? You’ve been there. Place is a damn mess and Hopper can’t organize anything for shit. I’ll just go pick her up and we’ll be back before it gets dark. Okay? There’s some cash in the top drawer of the nightstand. Order a couple of pizzas or something for when we get back. I’ll stop and grab some movies on the way home, or something.”

“It’s supposed to storm soon,” Will reminds him.

“Yeah,” Steve manages to croak out. “Yeah, I know. Look, we’ll, we’ll be back in an hour tops. Okay? Just—just stay out of trouble until we get back.”

When Steve takes the right off Denfield, he immediately spots a lone car pulled to the side of the road. It’s his car. The red BMW is stopped close to the dead end, pulled partway into the ditch even though there’s never any traffic on this road. Steve pulls the truck up behind the car, cutting the engine and throwing open the door without a second thought.

There’s snow starting to pile up on the car. The windshield and roof are blanketed in a thick layer, evidence of just how long you’ve been here.

It’s starting to get even darker now. The last of the sunset is bleeding out, and the snow is getting thicker and harder to see through as it comes down faster. The world begins to white out, and he has to squint to see through the flurry. Steve fumbles for the flashlight attached to his belt, clicking it on and shining it through the windows of the BMW, though he already knows you aren’t there. If you ended up stranded out here, you probably would have gone back to the cabin.

When he confirms you aren’t huddled in the backseat, he steps away from the car and shifts his focus to the forest on his right. Slowly, he scans the ground for footprints in the snow. They’re there. Faint. Half-filled with fresh snow that just keeps coming down. But there. He knows the way to the cabin even if they weren’t there, but there’s something about seeing the tracks that make the knot in his chest loosen ever so slightly.

You were here, at least. And it seems like he was right. You made it to the cabin and just lost track of time, like you always do. Probably found some old photo album and got lost flipping through the pages. You’re sentimental like that sometimes. He just wishes you would have called, but you must have left the radio in his car, and you wouldn’t have been able to reach anyone with the phone inside anyway. Last he saw, it was smashed to pieces on the floor.

Following the tracks you’ve left behind isn’t hard. They’re the only ones in this part of the woods. He isn’t sure if the land is private property or if it’s owned by the state, but he’s never seen anyone else out here. There aren’t even deer tracks, which Steve might consider odd any other day, but tonight he barely notices, just keeps following your footprints like they’re a lifeline leading him right back to you.

The beam of his flashlight illuminates the darkness, reflecting off the snow and casting dark shadows against the trees as he walks. They flicker and shift with each step he takes, shadow puppets stalking him. He blames the ice in his veins on the dropping temperature, and keeps his head down so he doesn’t start looking for figures in the dark that aren’t really there.

Steve hasn’t been walking for long when he finds a strange spot in the snow. Where your footprints before were consistent and moving in one direction, each step you took clearly visible in the snow, there’s a spot midway between the road and the cabin, maybe five minutes in, where the footsteps start to overlap. He shines his flashlight further down the nearly invisible path between the trees, his brows furrowing.

There’s a second set of tracks coming back from the cabin.

They’re overlapping the original tracks, deeper and fresher than the ones that he’s been following. And they’re human.

The panic that bursts through his chest is wild and raw. It tries to climb up and out of his mouth, but sticks halfway as his throat closes up. He can’t breathe. That second set of tracks—your footprints—suffocates him. Because you came back. You were coming back. Maybe hours ago, now, because the tracks are filling in with snow just like the rest. And then they just stop.

It’s instinct that keeps him from shutting down completely as his nightmare from last night slams back into him. You were dragged away from him. Swallowed up in a vast nothingness. And there was nothing he could but watch. He’s been dealing with the strange, supernatural occurrences in Hawkins since he was a teenager, and he’s been working with the PD for nearly as long. Steve knows he needs to keep a level-head, for your sake, and the whisper of your voice telling him to be safe rings loudly in his ears.

Desperately, Steve sweeps his flashlight across the snow-covered ground. His hand is shaking again. He freezes when he sees more footprints, the tracks veering off the path to the left. They don’t go far. Only a dozen feet before Steve sees something in the snow, partly obscured by the snow. At first, he thinks it might be you.

It’s not, but it doesn’t loosen the tightness around his throat.

There’s a box on the ground. The cardboard is damp and broken open on one corner. Ceramic shards spill from the hole. Smashed plates, he realizes after a moment. Nausea hits as he immediately realizes where they came from. Out here, there’s only one place they could come from.

“Fuck,” he hisses between his teeth, passing his flashlight to the other hand and reaching for the gun attached to his belt. If you dropped the box like that, it means something grabbed you, or you ran before it could. Neither option is reassuring.

There’s no blood in the snow. A quick scan of the immediate area tells him that much. And he can see where your tracks veer off again, deeper into the woods, away from the road and the cabin. They’re spaced further apart than the others, and his teeth clench so hard that his jaw starts to hurt, because he knows that means you started running.

He doesn’t realize how quiet the forest is until someone starts screaming.

High-pitched shrieks echo between the trees, long and loud, and it’s in horror that he makes out the mangled sound of his own name. Like last night, the sound of your terrified cries smashes through his ribcage and rips at the soft tissue of his insides. Eviscerate him. Hollow out his chest until he can’t breathe.

And then he’s running.

The screams don’t stop. Choked sobs. Wordless cries. His name, mostly. Loud and unceasing. Absolutely gut-wrenching. Like you’re being eaten alive. Each wail rips through the woods, muffled and carried away by the wind, but Steve doesn’t stop chasing your voice as he stumbles through the snow, narrowly avoiding trees and thick brush.

The flashlight beam cuts between the trees wildly as he follows the sound of your screams, but something isn’t right. He can’t make out what direction they’re coming from. They keep swirling around, echoing through his head as if they’re coming from all sides at once. It’s disorienting. Steve spins in a circle, starting to feel sick as he calls out your name and prays that you’ll answer him—tell him where you are so he can find you.

Instead, the screams cut off abruptly.

In an instant, Steve feels the crushing weight of reality begin to collapse around him. Dread rolls down his spine. Silence rings loudly in his ears. So much louder than your screams. So much worse. In an instant, Steve prays to whatever deity is out there that you’ll start screaming again, prays that the sound of it will haunt him for the rest of his life.

In the stillness of the forest, the only sound is the wind howling between the trees. Even that seems far off, growing faint.

“Hello?”

All of his limbs lock up. Steve’s flashlight flickers.

The greeting is hesitant. Shaky, with a distinct crack midway through the lone word. And it’s so, so close. Breathed from the space right behind him, into open air. The shock of it makes his stomach flip and sends a shiver running along his spine, and it takes an agonizing second for the sound to slot into place.

It’s your voice.

“Steve?” you whisper again. Quieter. Closer.

Steve whips around to face the other direction. Milky eyes glint under the beam from his flashlight, like a cat in the darkness, surrounded by dark, scraggly locks of matted hair.

A gray, hulking shape lunges from between a pair of trees, and Steve shouts as it hurtles towards him, closing the distance before he can click off the safety and get a shot off. Instead, he throws himself to the side, tumbling down into the snow, but not before something sharp catches his arm. Claws slice through his jacket and uniform shirt. It hurts, he registers, somewhere in the very back of his mind, but it’s shoved to the side before he can latch onto the pain.

Despite the thick layer of snow on the ground, the breath is still slammed from his lungs as he hits the ground. The thing starts screaming at him. His name. Your voice. Just like a moment ago. Just like this morning. His nightmare and whatever was in the woods. Whatever Will could hear, too.

The screeches rise and rise in pitch until they make his ears ring, losing form until it’s not even his name anymore. Just noise.

He scrambles backwards through the snow, but can’t find his flashlight as he fumbles for it blindly, unable to see the creature. The flashlight is still on, lighting up the immediate area between flickers. Something moves at the edge of the beam, where light melts into the darkness.

Those pale eyes are glowing in the darkness. Steve gets a look at long, inhuman arms and legs and gray flesh pulled too taut over a spindly, skinny frame. It doesn’t have a face. Not one that he can see behind that matted hair or fur.

It shies away from the light, shrinking back between the trees, but it’s too tall to hide between them properly. Those empty, unblinking eyes watch Steve roll to his feet and raise his gun. His hands shake. It takes a second for him to unlock the safety.

The thing cocks its head to one side, one distorted hand curling around a thin tree trunk. Claws scrape the bark. Steve’s right arm throbs. Beneath his coat, his skin feels wet. His fingers are stiff as they shift to the trigger.

“Steve!”

The shriek comes from his left. His eyes flick in that direction for a split second.

A mistake.

The monster screams at him, low and garbled. It lurches out from between the trees, lunging. Steve stumbles backwards in the snow. Not fast enough. A burning feeling laces up his arm. Milky eyes bore into his. The stink of rot chokes his nose and throat. His foot catches, sending him hurtling towards the ground. The gun in his hand goes off. The shot echoing through the air. It’s the last thing he hears before his head slams into something hard.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #steve harrington #st fic #stranger things fic #fic: into open flames

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disasterofastory · 2 years ago

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On the side of the road (Steve Rogers x Reader)

On the side of the road officer!Steve Rogers x prostitute!Reader Warnings: prostitution, smut

Summary: You have a better idea than spening your night at the police.

A/N: Kinktober 2022

A groan leaves your mouth the moment you see a police car appearing from the turn of the road. The lights of the city gleam behind it in the distance. A halo shines around the tall buildings, suppressing the sparks of the stars in the dark sky. The only thing you can see is the moon, full and bright.

You move back from the side of the road, hoping you can hide in the darkness. Maybe you can get away unnoticed. Maybe they won't see you. How could they? You are almost in the bushes that are lined up next to the dark road.

You don't even dare to move. Your eyes are on the ground, staring at the black heels you chose to wear tonight. It looks good with your matching miniskirt and lacy top that shows off every part of your curves you are proud of. They are not warm enough for the night, and goosebumps run over your body every now and again, but you are not here to feel good and comfortable. You are here to work.

Well, that's it if the familiar white and blue car doesn't notice you.

Your jaw clenches with frustration as you close your eyes for a second. Small pebbles creak under the wheels of the car when it pulls off the road to stop in front of you.

Fuck.

For a few seconds, your attention turns to the opposite direction, thinking about running away, but the idea seems laughable and humiliating. No. It's not your first time with the cops, you can deal with them now too. You have to. Your eyes return to the car, watching the door open as a man gets out. He is tall and blonde. The lights of the vehicle do nothing to hide his imposing figure. His uniform stretches on his broad muscles, and gears hang on his black belt, forcing your attention to his thin waist until he breaks the silence first.

"Are you lost?" He asks. Both of you know the question is a waste of time. One look at your revealing dress, and the man knows why you are here in the middle of the night. His bright blue eyes sweep over your body. Your skin is smooth under the lights of the car, he can see your nipples through the thin fabric, and your makeup glitters as you move your head. "I'm perfectly fine, Officer," you reply when you find your voice. "Thank you for your concern." The stranger can't help but smirk. There is a feigned innocence in your eyes as you look at him, but the slight tease and flirtiness in your voice are undeniable. "Do you have your papers?" When you shake your head, he sighs. "Then I'm afraid you have to come with me. Do you have any weapons?" It's not like you could hide anything under your skin-tight dress, but he has to ask. The man tries to tell himself that he only looks over your body again to search you but deep down, he knows it's not true. He can't understand why a woman like you would waste her life away like this. "Just a spray in my purse," you reply, holding up your small bag in your hand. "Are you planning to use it on me?" He knows he should be much more firm with you, but the pressure in his pants doesn't let him. You are beautiful, and he has to force himself not to stare at your deep cleavage, hard nipples, and soft thighs. A smirk pulls on your lips. You find the question funny, but you are not bothered by it, your focus is on something else. You recognize that look. Hunger. "No, Officer…" "Rogers. Steve Rogers." He wants to hear his name coming out of your mouth. His gaze is on your lips. The corners of your red lips jerk upwards again. "Officer Rogers," you repeat his words. "Steve Rogers. Are you sure you have to take me in?" His eyes darken for a second before the man shakes his head to clear his mind. "I'm afraid, Miss…" You don't even think before you lie. "Barnes." Well, you are definitely not the Barnes he knows. "But my friends call me Angel," you add. Yeah… friends. Sure.

Your every hope gets crushed when Steve opens one of the back doors, and you have no choice but to obey.

The way back to the city is quiet while you are busy with your thoughts. Watching the blonde man glancing back at you in the rearview mirror every few minutes, you know you still have a chance to go home instead of the station. Sure, you won't get money for it, but you rarely have the opportunity to have sex with a man like him. He is handsome with a chiseled jawline, straight nose, and plump lips. "Are you sure there is no other way, Officer?" You ask him after a while as you lean closer to the grid that separates you from the man. Of course, there is. Steve can think of a dozen positions you could get away with everything. Everything. His jaw clenches when he can't answer. What he wants and what he should say are two different things.

You take it as a yes, though.

Leaning back on the seat, you let your legs open to show off your black panties. You are not even sure Steve can see it until his eyes wander to the mirror again, and he freezes. Satisfaction washes over your body, and you go further. Your hands smooth up from your knees to the edge of your skirt to push it up. "Please, Officer." The delicious whine in your voice echoes in Steve's ear. "I'm sure we can help each other out." You don't have to see it. You know he is hard. His erection between his muscled thighs presses against the fabric of his underwear and pants.

Steve shouldn't do this. He has a job to do. He has to take you in and deal with you in his office in the most professional way he can. He glances up at the mirror again. Your painted nails dig into the soft flesh of your inner thighs. So close to your center.

Fuck it.

"Oh, fuck!" Steve's groan fills the back of the car as you sink down on his hard length. His hands are firm on your hips, and his lips ghost over your hard nipple as he breathes out. "You are so big," you tell him. And this time, you mean it. He stretches you out, filling you up until every nerve of your body is on edge with anticipation. "Ride me, Angel," he rasps. "Make a mess on my cock, baby." And you do just that. You begin to bounce on his lap steadily, keeping your balance with your hands on his broad shoulders. His thick cock reaches every sweet spot in you that sends pleasure through your veins. One of your hands slips to the back of his neck as he plays with your nipples. He sucks and flicks them with his warm tongue. "Steve," you exhale his name. "I'm gonna…" "Cum," he orders immediately. His hand goes down from your hips to your heated pussy. His thumb finds your clit easily, teasing the sensitive bud until you shake above him. His mouth on your nipple, his finger on your clit, and his hard cock in your throbbing pussy are enough to push you over the edge. Your muscles jerk at the overwhelming feeling, and you barely notice the change in the blonde man's demeanor.

His grip is on your hips again, keeping you steady to fuck up into you. He pounds you with a newfound vigor while your legs shake beside his thighs. The wet sound of your pussy fills the car, and the musky scent of both of you covers your senses. Your eyes roll back when another orgasm consumes your used body. "That's right, Angel," Steve groans. "Cum on my cock, make a mess on it, you little whore." "Steve!" Your voice is tight and hoarse. Black dots dance in front of your eyes. "How many men made you feel this good, Angel? Do you cum on every cock like this?" You shake your head. At least you think you are shaking your head. You are not sure. Your burning cunt is tight on his cock as your walls flutter to suck him in more. "No? You don't get a cock like this every night?" "No," you mewl. Tears are running down your heated cheeks. "I'm gonna cum," he roars, and with that, he pushes his hips up one more time, burying himself in your abused channel as he fills the condom with his seed.

Both of you need a few minutes to get your strength back and clear your mind. Your body shakes, and Steve's softened cock is still in your pussy when the man finds his voice to speak up. "We should go. I still have to take you home."

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers smut #marvel smut #marvel imagine #avengers imagine #avengers smut #kinktober 2022

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fatecantstopme · 3 years ago

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Save Me From Myself

Pairing: BBF!Bucky x reader

Summary: You and your boyfriend get into a fight and he beats you. You go to your brother’s house for support only to find his best friend and roommate, Bucky Barnes, instead. Bucky is furious when you tell him what happened and he takes care of you.

Warnings: Angst, fluffy fluff. Domestic violence/assault. Use of pet names. Bucky being insanely protective.

A/N: I'm thinking I'll make a part 2...so, there will be eventual smut.

Part 2

Tears streamed down your bruised cheeks as you tried to drive the 5 miles to your brother’s apartment without crashing your car. You were silently praying that you wouldn't drive by any cops, partially because you were speeding and partially because you weren't sure if you were driving in your own lane. It was dark, your left eye was swelling, and the tears clouded your vision. It was a trifecta ripe for disaster.

By some miracle, you managed to get to his apartment in one piece. You parked your car and quickly made your way up the stairs to his third floor apartment. You banged on the door as loudly as you could.

After 15 seconds of no response, you knocked even louder and yelled your brother's name. "Steve! Open the door!"

A few moments later, you heard a man's voice yell a response. "Hold on, I'm coming. Sweet Jesus." The door swung open and you were met with your brother's best friend and roommate, Bucky Barnes.

"Where's Steve?" you asked as you pushed past Bucky into the apartment.

"Well hello to you too, (Y/N). Steve's staying the night at Peggy's."

"Damnit," you said angrily before dropping onto the couch with your head in your hand.

The moment Bucky saw your hands, concern flowed through his body. "What happened to you?"

"It's nothing. I just want to talk to Steve," you mumbled.

Bucky sat down beside you. "Well Steve's not here, but I am. Talk to me, (Y/N)." He reached up and gently pried your left hand away from your face. He gasped at the sight of your swollen eye and he lifted your chin to get a better look at you. "Who did this to you?"

You could hear the anger in his voice and it sparked a whole new wave of tears.

"Hey, hey. It's okay, don't cry," he said in a much softer voice. "Let me get something to clean you up with, okay?"

You nodded and wiped the tears from your eyes as Bucky rummaged through the closet in an attempt to find the first aid kit he was pretty sure was tucked in there somewhere.

A few moments later, he emerged triumphant, first aid kit held up in his metal hand. When he looked at you again, the smile slid from his face. He took a moment to really look at you and he began calculating all the injuries you had. Your legs appeared to be okay, but they were mostly covered, so he couldn't be sure. He couldn't see any obvious injuries to your torso, but he could tell you were in pain. You were cradling your right arm and your hands were bloody and bruised. His eyes traveled up to your face and he felt a mix of heartbreak and overwhelming rage. He pushed both emotions aside and focused on you instead. Your normally beautiful eyes were surrounded by black and blue bruises and the left one was swollen shut. There were several small cuts on your face, a split lip, and a large gash across your right cheek. Your hair was disheveled and your clothes looked haphazard. Normally you were always put together, so it was obvious that something bad had happened to you.

Bucky wanted to believe that no person would ever do this to you, but he had a bad feeling he knew exactly what happened. He knelt down in front of you and opened up the first aid kit. "You wanna tell me what happened?"

You shook your head and kept your eye trained on the front of Bucky's shirt, avoiding his eyes with your one good one.

Bucky didn't say anything as he started to gently clean the cuts on your face. The large gash on the right side looked deep, but not 'needs stitches' deep. You winced and inhaled sharply when he touched your face. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I don't want to hurt you. Maybe we should just go to the hospital."

"No," you said insistently. "No hospitals."

Bucky sighed. "Alright, doll. No hospitals. But I'd really like to know what happened."

You opened your mouth to lie, but decided against it. You just sat in silence as Bucky wiped the blood from your hands.

"You don't have to tell me, but I'm all you've got right now. I just want to help you."

"It was nothing, Buck. I just fell."

Bucky's jaw tightened and you realized that lying to him was not a good plan. "You fell. Into John's fists?"

You winced at his tone and started to deny it, but there was no point. Bucky knew you too well. And unfortunately, he knew John too well too. "He didn't mean it," you whispered.

Bucky let out a sound that was something between a growl and a curse. "That piece of shit means everything he does, (Y/N). I'll kill him for hurting you."

"You're not going to kill anyone, Bucky."

He looked up at you and suddenly you had a very different feeling in your chest. He was completely serious. "He deserves it."

Your eye widened as much as it could. "Bucky, what good would that do? It won't change anything."

He sighed and let go of your hands. "Fine. But if you go back to him, I swear..." he trailed off, his expression hard.

You didn't say anything and Bucky got angrier. "(Y/N). He's going to kill you if you stay. You have to know that. You're too good for him. You deserve the world."

You made eye contact with him and tears threatened to push their way out of your eyes again. "I know, I know. But where am I supposed to go, Bucky? We live together."

"You'll stay with us until we can get you a new apartment. I'll sleep on the couch and you can have my room."

You shook your head. "I'm not going to kick you out of your room, Bucky."

"You're not. I'm offering." He squeezed your arm and you yelped. "Shit, doll! I'm sorry. What's wrong?" He moved your arm to inspect it and you gasped in pain.

"I think it's broken," you said softly, voice laced with pain.

"We're going to the hospital, (Y/N). No excuses." You started to protest and he cut you off. "Either you walk with me or I carry you. You decide, but we are going to the hospital."

You could hear the seriousness in his voice, so you decided to stop trying to fight him. What good would it do? You followed Bucky to the door and he opened it for you to walk out ahead of him. He guided you down the stairs to his car, opening the passenger side door for you to slide in. Just that small act was kinder than John ever was to you. It surprised you slightly, but Bucky always treated you that way. Like you mattered.

Bucky drove in silence to the hospital; shooting glances over to you to make sure you were doing okay. His heart ached every time he looked at you. It broke his heart that you were in pain and that someone had done this to you. You were the best person he knew and he adored you. More than he'd ever tell you. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to keep you safe and to beat the ever-loving shit out of John. "You still with me, sweets?" he asked softly.

You nodded and attempted to smile at him. You winced in pain as the action made your split lip throb.

Bucky winced. "Maybe let's keep the facial expressions to a minimum, yeah?"

You nodded again. "Probably best," you mumbled.

Bucky pulled into the emergency room parking lot and helped you out of the car. As you walked through the front door, people turned to look at the two of you. When you reached the front desk, Bucky began to explain what happened, but the nurse asked him to step back and beckoned you to the side.

"Miss, what happened?" she asked.

"My boyfriend beat me," you whispered softly, shame covering your face.

"Is that your boyfriend?"

You shook your head. "He's my brother's best friend."

The nurse nodded. "So he didn't hurt you?"

You shook your head again. "No, he's the one who insisted we come here."

"Good. We need to make sure you don't have any serious injuries, okay? Go ahead and have a seat. We'll be with you soon."

You and Bucky took your seats and he leaned over to ask you what the nurse said. "She wanted to make sure you weren't the one who hurt me."

He nodded. "I would never hurt you. Never." He said it with such conviction that you were a little surprised.

You didn't have to wait very long to be seen by a doctor. When your name was called, Bucky tried to follow you, but the nurse told him he had to wait in the waiting room. Panic lit up your face and you said quickly, "I need him."

The nurse glanced at you and she could see the anxiety on your face. She nodded her head and gestured for Bucky to follow.

Once you were in a room, the nurse took your vitals and preliminary information. Eventually, the doctor came in to begin her exam. "Hello, Miss (Y/L/N). How are you feeling today?"

"Not great," you said softly.

The doctor nodded. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I got in a fight with my boyfriend." The doctor glanced over at Bucky, but you shook your head quickly. "Not him."

The doctor relaxed a little and turned her attention back to you. "What started the fight?"

"We got into an argument. He accused me of cheating on him and he got really angry when I insisted that I wasn't. He'd been drinking. He was just really angry," you trailed off.

"Angry or not, he shouldn't have hit you. What exactly did he do?"

You were clearly uncomfortable, so Bucky stepped forward and took your hand gently. "Just go slowly, (Y/N). It's okay. You're safe."

You relaxed slightly. "He hit me in the face several times. He wears this big ring on his right hand and it cut my cheek. He pulled me by my hair and dragged me onto the floor so he could kick me. I think he got my arm when I tried to protect my stomach. Then he just walked away and left me there." You paused. "When I felt strong enough, I got up, grabbed my keys, and drove to my brother's apartment."

"This is your brother?" the doctor asked.

Bucky shook his head. "No ma'am, I'm his roommate. Her brother wasn't home, but I thought she needed to come to the hospital."

"That was a good call. Especially if he managed to get a kick into your torso. We want to make sure you don't have any internal injuries. And it sounds like your arm might be injured as well." She stood up and got a closer look at your face. "Your face appears to look worse than it actually is, which is good. Just some bruising, swelling, and minor cuts. We'll make sure they're nice and cleaned up before you go so we can reduce the likelihood of an infection."

"Bucky already cleaned them a little," you said softly.

The doctor smiled. "It seems like you've got yourself a good friend."

You looked at Bucky. He looked nervous, but he shot you a warm smile. "Yeah, I think you're right," you murmured.

The doctor picked up your right arm and you gasped. "I can't be sure if it's a fracture or a break until we get an x-ray. I'll go order that and be right back."

You took a deep breath and watched as the doctor left the room. "Thanks for brining me here, Bucky."

"No way was I gonna let you out-stubborn me." You laughed for the first time all evening and it made Bucky smile. He'd always loved your laugh, but it was a rare sound lately. He actually couldn't remember the last time he'd heard it. "I miss that laugh."

Surprise lit up your face and he blushed slightly. He hadn't intended to say it out loud, but when your lips curved into a small smile, his heart started beating normally again. "I kind of miss it too."

"Ever since you started dating John, you've just seemed...sadder, somehow. You were always so bubbly and fun when we were kids."

You shrugged. "I guess I didn't really realize how much I'd changed until it was too late."

"It's never too late."

You looked up at him. "I don't feel like myself. I haven't for years. I don't know if I'll ever get that back."

He squeezed your hand gently. "You will. Steve and I will help you. We're the ones who know you best."

The mention of your brother's name brought you back to reality. Bucky was your friend, sure, but that was it. That's all it had ever been. You were his best friend's kid sister. Nothing more. A part of you had always had a crush on Bucky, even while you were with John, but that was something you would never act on. It would be too awkward for your brother if his best friend rejected you.

"Hey sweets, where's that head at?"

You shook your head to clear your thoughts. "Sorry, I was just lost in my thoughts." You were saved from having to explain more by the entrance of a hospital tech.

"Hi, Miss (Y/L/N). I'm here to take you for your x-ray."

Bucky promised to be there when you returned, so you allowed the tech to lead you to radiology for your x-ray.

30 minutes after the exam, you had your results in hand, your cuts cleaned, and a prescription to prevent infection and help with the pain.

Bucky helped you into the car before sliding into the driver's seat. "At least it's not broken," he said gently.

"It's fractured in two places, Buck," you mumbled.

He sighed and looked at the brace they'd put on your arm. It was just to help support the bone as it healed, but it would serve as a reminder of what happened to you for a long time even after the bruises had faded and the cuts healed.

When the two of you arrived back at the apartment, Bucky insisted once again that you take his bed. You tried to refuse, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. "You're the one with several injuries, (Y/N/N). I will happily take the couch."

You sighed. "Fine, but I'm only agreeing to this because you're so damn stubborn and I'm too tired to argue."

He grinned. "I'll take the win." He gestured for you to follow him to his bedroom. "You can borrow some of my clothes to sleep in."

You blushed slightly and prayed that he didn't notice. The idea of wearing his clothes warmed your whole body. You watched him pull a t-shirt and sweatpants out of his drawer and set them on the bed. "These are definitely too big for you, but I hope they'll work for now. Steve and I will go to your place and pack up your stuff tomorrow."

"These will work," you said as you picked up the shirt. "Thank you." You stared at him in silence for a moment before he caught on.

"Shit, sorry! I'll leave so you can change. Just yell if you need anything."

When he walked out of the room, you couldn't help but chuckle. For such a smart man, he could be dense as hell. You started to try and take your shirt off, but you gasped as pain radiated down your arm. You tried lifting your arm again, but the pain only intensified. You sighed angrily, realizing you weren't getting the damn shirt off without help. The last thing you wanted to do was ask Bucky to take your shirt off, but you didn't have another option...unless you wanted to cut the damn thing off.

You poked your head out of his room and called his name softly. "Bucky?"

He appeared quickly from the kitchen. "What'cha need sweets?"

"I um...I can't get my shirt off," you mumbled uncomfortably.

His eyes widened and a slight blush colored his cheeks. "Oh, um. Do you want me to help?"

You nodded. "It hurts my arm too much, but I wanted to get a shower before I go to bed, so it has to come off."

Bucky looked nervous, but he agreed to help you. He followed you back into his room and you turned away from him in an attempt to have more privacy.

"Umm, doll?"

"Yeah?"

"You kinda have to face me...your arm is in the front."

You froze for a second before turning around. "Right..."

"Hey, I'll keep my eyes on your face, okay? I just need to get it over your arm first," he said in an attempt to put you at ease.

You nodded your head and lifted your left arm over your head for him.

"Okay, sweets. I'm gonna have to move the right arm. I'll go as slowly as I can, okay?"

"Just do it quickly so I can get it over with."

He sighed. "Alright, on three. One--" He quickly lifted your arm into the air as gently as he could while simultaneously pulling your shirt up and over your head and arms.

You gasped in pain, but Bucky was lowering your arm immediately after the pain registered in your brain. Your shirt was on the floor and you were standing before the guy you'd had a crush on since 6th grade in nothing but a bra and jeans. The embarrassment brought a dark blush to your face.

Bucky's eyes never left your face, although he really really wanted to look down. He cleared his throat lightly. "Need anything else, doll?"

You started to shake your head when an uncomfortable realization came over you. "I uh, I can't--I mean, I umm..."

He raised an eyebrow as he watched your face. "Yes?"

"My bra..." you whispered. "I can't unclasp it."

"Oh," he said, his cheeks darkening. "Umm...turn around." When you turned your back to him, he finally let his eyes slide down your body. His heart clenched at the sight of several bruises on your back that appeared to be in various stages of healing. With dexterous fingers, he quickly unclasped your bra and then turned away from you so you could have privacy. "You can turn around now. I'll be in the living room if you need anything, but before I go, I need to know something."

"Okay..." you said softly as you turned to face his back.

"How many times has he hit you?"

You realized you probably had old bruises on your back, along with a couple scars from various "fights" with John. You sighed softly. "Too many to count, Buck," you said honestly.

His back tensed and he let out a low sound that you could only equate to a growl. "Does Steve know?"

"No. I never told him. I never told anyone."

Bucky sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Don't keep shit like that from me anymore, okay? Don't keep it from Steve either. We both care about you and there is no way in hell that either one of us would have allowed John to remain above ground if we'd known."

"I know," you whispered.

He could hear the tears in your voice and he desperately wanted to pull you into a tight hug, but he knew it would be awkward given your half-naked state. "I'm going to hug you when it's less awkward, but I just want you to know that I care about you, okay? A lot."

Your heart skipped a beat and you closed your eyes. "Thank you, Bucky."

He nodded. "Okay, I'm gonna leave the room now. Go get your shower and then I'll help you with whatever you need."

"Okay, thanks." He left the room and you slowly stripped off your remaining clothes before climbing into the shower. You stood under the spray, letting the hot water sooth your sore body. You would have happily stayed in the shower for hours, if the hot water hadn't turned to luke warm.

You sighed as you turned off the shower and slowly dried off as best as you could given your current state. Your arm was aching, but at least the pain meds had finally started to kick in. You went back into Bucky's bedroom and pulled his sweatpants on easily. When it came to putting on a shirt, however, your arm once again acted as a painful obstacle. You refused to ask him for even more help, so you pulled on the shirt as slowly as possible, biting your lip to keep from crying out in pain.

Once you were fully dressed, you stepped out into the living room in search of Bucky, and maybe something to eat. Bucky was sitting on the couch watching something on TV and he looked up when you walked in. His eyes widened slightly and his jaw went slack as he looked at you. He didn't say anything for a moment and you started to feel uncomfortable under his gaze.

"Umm, you okay Buck?"

He realized he'd been staring and he shook his head and cleared his throat. "Um, yeah. Sorry, sweets. I was--umm...did you enjoy your shower?"

You nodded. "Yeah, I could've stayed in there for hours."

Bucky was still looking at you oddly and you weren't sure why. You were tired and achey, and you couldn't help but ask him what was up. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"There's just something about seeing you in my clothes..." he trailed off.

Your eyebrows raised and you stared at him in silence. You didn't know what to say to that or exactly how to interpret it.

Bucky clearly realized what he'd said a moment too late. His face blushed dark red and he looked away from you. "Sorry, I uh, I shouldn't have said anything."

You moved further into the room and sat down on the chair across from him. "You didn't really say anything, so it's okay."

Bucky looked at you in surprise. "Did you miss what I said?"

You chuckled lightly. "I think my ears are the one thing that still work perfectly." You paused. "Was there more to your statement than I thought?"

Bucky looked away from you again. "I don't know if we should be talking about this right now."

"You're the one that brought it up. I could use something to take my mind off of everything anyway."

Bucky sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Steve's been my best friend since we were little kids. I've known you basically my whole life. I always thought you were fun and sweet, but you were Steve's little sister, ya know?"

You nodded, not entirely sure where he was going with this. Or maybe you just didn't want to get your hopes up.

"But then we went to college and you graduated high school and things changed. I started looking at you differently. I wanted to say something to you when you graduated college...but then you started dating John and I just...I hated it. I hated him. And that was even before I knew what a jackass he was."

"You warned me, but I didn't want to listen," you said softly.

Bucky sighed. "I know, but it's a little more complicated than that, isn't it? Love is blind."

"Is it? Or was I just ignorant?"

"Maybe both, but you're still the smartest woman I know."

You chuckled. "I love the compliments, Buck, even if you're full of shit."

"There's that laugh again. My favorite sound in the world."

You inhaled sharply and he blushed. "Your favorite?"

Bucky nodded. "You're my favorite, so it's not too far of a stretch..."

You just looked at Bucky in silence, mentally begging him to continue.

"Look, I know this is terrible timing, but I can't sit here and pretend that I don't feel what I feel. I've adored you for years, (Y/N). You're my favorite person in the entire world, even over Steve. Seeing you in pain is the worst thing I've ever experienced. Just knowing that John did this to you...it makes me see red. You deserve the world, (Y/N/N)."

Tears had formed in your eyes while he spoke. "What are you saying, Bucky?"

He looked at you with warm eyes. "I think you know, doll."

"I need to hear you say it," you whispered.

Bucky took a deep breath. "I love you, (Y/N). I've loved you for years. I loved you before I even really knew what love was. Seeing you with anyone else broke my heart, but seeing you with John...I don't even have words, (Y/N)."

You stood up and walked over to him, kneeling on the ground in front of him. You took his hand in yours and squeezed it. "I wish you would have told me sooner."

"Would it have changed anything?" he whispered.

"It would have changed everything."

He looked at you in surprise, blue eyes filled with hope. "What...I mean, do you...?"

"I think you know," you said softly, echoing his earlier words.

"Please, doll." He sounded scared to have hope.

"I fell in love with you a long time ago, Buck. My feelings for you have never changed."

He touched your face as gently as possible. "I'm dying to kiss you, sweets, but I don't want to hurt you."

"Just be gentle," you whispered. "I don't want to wait for it to heal."

He leaned forward and placed his lips against yours with the gentlest affection you'd ever received. He held the kiss as long as he could without moving so he wouldn't hurt you. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. "I've wanted to do that for years, but I promise you I'll kiss you breathless once you heal...if you let me."

You nodded your head, "I would love that."

He smiled and kissed your forehead sweetly. "How about we get you in bed, huh? You need to get some rest."

You nodded and allowed him to help you up off the floor. He guided you to his room and helped you into the bed. He kissed your cheek, avoiding the cut that remained there.

"Goodnight, doll. If you need anything, I'll be on the couch."

He started to leave, but you grabbed his hand with your good arm. "Please stay," you whispered.

He looked conflicted. "Are you sure, doll? Last thing I wanna do is make you uncomfortable."

"I don't wanna be alone. Please, Buck."

He never could tell you no, so he crawled into the bed beside you and reached over you to turn off the light. You rolled over so your back was to him and he laid still beside you, afraid to touch you, despite your earlier conversation.

"Bucky?"

"Yeah, sweets?"

"You can touch me."

He laughed lightly and rolled over so his front was against your back. He slowly wrapped his metal arm around your waist. "Am I hurting you?"

You shook your head and settled back against him, ensuring his body was flush against yours. He kissed your shoulder and whispered, "Goodnight, (Y/N)."

"Goodnight, Bucky. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For saving me from myself."

He kissed your shoulder again. "Always, (Y/N/N). Always."

#brother's best friend!bucky barnes #bbf!bucky #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bbf!bucky barnes x reader #marvel fanfic

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depravity-n-savagery · 3 years ago

Text

「 Leave Out All The Rest 」

✝ Pairings: Billy Hargrove x (fem)Reader

✝ Summary: Billy goes missing after another fight with Neil, and you're left to search for him on your own. (A song fic based around 'Leave Out All The Rest' by Linkin Park)

✝ CW: ANGST, parental abuse, depression, allusions to the possibility of suicide (its not explicitly mentioned), self loathing, unofficial death, doesn't fit the exact timeline of the show

🛑 +18 Minors DNI 🛑

✝ Word Count: 4.8k

✝ A/N: The way this story ends depends on which one of the possibilities you choose to believe (and how sad you want to be). Read the content warning, and buckle up. The Pain Express is taking off again.

I dreamed I was missing

You were so scared

But no one would listen

Cause no one else cared

"Billy? BILLY?!"

The trees rustled in the soft breeze, carrying your voice through the empty woods. Empty. Regardless of how panicked you sounded over the phone, or how you didn't even bother hiding your sobs when you asked - no, begged - for help… nobody came. Not Nancy Wheeler. Not Johnathan Byers. Damn sure not Steve Harrington. So you combed through the crunchy fallen leaves and eerie silence alone. Stumbling through the darkness.

Where the hell could he be? It wasn't like Billy to go this long without talking to you. Even when he was upset. He may give you the silent treatment to your face, but it's never gone a full day without a single word. A hug. A kiss... What you'd do for just a kiss right now. To have him here and see that stupid cocky grin of his. That sandy hair and those pretty eyelashes. Eyelashes that were wet with tears the last time you saw them. That's what had you worried.

"Billy!! Please…" The sobs were harder to hold back now. Crumbling under the thought that maybe he was gone. Did he get into some kind of car wreck? Did he skip town altogether? Did Neil do something unspeakable and cover it up? You wouldn't put it past him. The only reason you hadn't immediately called the cops was because the first person they would contact is Neil. Neil, who would twist the narrative and tell them whatever he wanted them to believe. That Billy was a 'trouble child' and probably ran off with some girl or to get into mischief. The authorities will eat it up because it's believable, and because it doesn't disrupt their perfect suburban small-town flow. They've been desperate to bring Hawkins back to 'normal' after Will and Barbara went missing.

All there was left to do was return home and figure out your next step. Something. Anything, to find him and make sure he's safe.

After my dreaming

I woke with this fear

What am I leaving

When I'm done here?

Billy embraced and loathed the silence currently surrounding him. For once it wasn't filled with Neil's venomous insults and orders. No criticism. However it left him open to an assault of his own doing. The swirl of his own deepest thoughts. Doing Neil's dirty work for him, even when he was on the other side of town.

Maybe I deserve it.

The words crept through his mind, like a whisper. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be, because he already believed them. He did deserve it. The fresh black eye and bruised ribs? Yup. The harsh words, telling him how much of a fuck up he was? Sure did.

He shouldn't have sassed Neil, knowing the mood he was in. Knowing what the outcome would be. But fuck if it didn't feel good in the moment. To look his father in the eye when he demanded Billy go fetch Max from whatever friend's house she ran off to, and not flinch. To openly grimace at him and tell him to go fuck himself. Ooohh yes. It felt like winning the gold metal. Until Neil's fist brought him back to reality.

Now here he was. Hiding out in his Camaro at Lover's Lake. Exactly like the coward he secretly was. Licking his wounds and avoiding the one thing he didn't deserve. You. Somehow, an asshole like him landed someone so fucking sweet and patient and caring. It made no sense, but he was too greedy to set you free. He enjoyed it too much - the way you loved him. It felt too good. Too good for him.

The tears were rolling down his cheeks, heavier and heavier with every sinking realization. What has he really done worth remembering? Worth deserving you? Worth deserving anything? Clearly his mother didn't see the worth in him. The high school basketball team has moved on to the next star senior. His popularity was useless once graduation came and went. His sexual conquests (before you) yielded zero substance, minus the surprising ability to dodge disease and early fatherhood.

The world would move on without him. Whether it was California or Hawkins.

You would move on without him.

When my time comes

Forget the wrong that I've done

Help me leave behind some reasons to be missed

This is so stupid, this is so stupid-

He ignored the mantra in his head, turning up the music just enough to drown it out. If he was going to do this, really do this, then he had to see you. Had to steal one last kiss. Hear you say his name again. Sure, you'll be furious with him for making you worry like this. Probably curse him out a bit - but you'll forgive him. You always did. You were good like that.

So he tightened his grip on the steering wheel and floored it, speeding down the familiar roads that led to your place. Lowering the volume of his radio only when he reached your street. By now your parents would be asleep, and he didn't want to wake them. Didn't want any chance of someone stopping the plan he had set in motion.

And don't resent me

And when you're feeling empty

Keep me in your memory

Leave out all the rest

There was no way you were going to get a wink of sleep. Not with your boyfriend out there somewhere, god knows where doing god knows what. There was no point in even trying. The map of Hawkins spread out across your bed was the main focus of your attention. Red X's marked in crude worn-out Sharpie littered the glossy paper. Showing the places you managed to search in one night. There's still so much ground to cover.

Then you heard the soft clink of something hitting your window. A pebble, you guessed. Or several. The noises came rapidly, and harder each time.

"Billy?" You whispered into the night, practically yanking your window wide open.

Thank the heavens above, you heard that gruff voice speak back. It's sad that you missed it so much more when you thought you'd never hear it again. "Yeah, I'm here baby. 'M comin' up." He dropped the rocks in his hands and started climbing his way up to your window. It was a terrible time to be awestruck by his physical strength, but it felt good. To just admire this man before the heaviness of the night resumed. Good thing he works out so damn much.

In less than five minutes he was in your room, standing right in front of you like nothing happened. It set you off. "Where were you?!" You hissed at him, caught between wanting to scold him and wanting to hold him. The action would depend on his answer.

"I had to get away for a while."

"Get- Get away?? You disappeared!" The shaking in your hands was unstoppable, spreading until your whole body was antsy. Prompting you to pace and run your hands through your hair. "I know.. you weren't here for when the Byers kid and Barbara went missing. But- weird shit happens here! I lost my friend, Billy." Your feet stopped, turned to lead as you remembered her smiling face. She was always so bright and beautiful. Elegant, really. She deserved so much better than what this shit town did to her. "I'll never see Barbara again, and if something like that happened to you I couldn't take it. Okay? So don't ever do some shit like this again!"

Billy was a silent statue. He let you get it all out, absorbing your words and trying his best to let them sink in. No matter how much they hurt. It hurt to know that you cared so deeply for him. That'll only make it harder.

"I'm sorry…" Was all he could manage. It was enough to soften you, and send you running into his embrace. Burying your face in his exposed chest, peeking out from the red half-buttoned shirt. He could feel the tears you let freely wet his skin. Hot and plentiful like the ones he shed in his car earlier.

Don't be afraid

I've taken my beating

I've shared what I've made

The next thing you noticed, once the flow of tears finally stopped, was his face. The now familiar signs of an altercation with his father. "Did he-" There wasn't really a point to asking him what happened. You already knew the answer. So with a sigh, you simply guided him to your bed. Sitting down beside him with the weight of tonight's events still dragging down the air in your lungs. Every breath felt strained and slow.

I'm strong on the surface

Not all the way through

I've never been perfect

But neither have you

It was painful to watch him try to hold it all together. Being the only person to ever really see him fall apart. You could tell he was fighting it. Just let it go. Billy was never that simple. "You know… you don't have to do that."

"Do what?" He replied, barely looking at you through his peripheral vision.

"Mask how you're feeling. I- We've been here before. You know it doesn't change the way I see you." Your hand raised to steady itself on his bicep. The muscle tensed under your touch. His whole body tensed.

"Don't do that. Don't baby me."

What did he want you to do? Just sit there and watch him hurt? Do nothing? That wasn't in you. You knew him enough to know he wouldn't want that either. "Why is this always such a fight with you?" The leftover anger seeped back into your words. "I just spent the whole night out in the woods, and all over Hawkins looking for you! I should be pissed off-"

"You are pissed off."

"-BUT, here I am. Sitting beside you. Just wanting to hold you and love you. Goddamn it Billy, why do you make it so hard for me to just love you??"

The wind whistles through the open window. Not solely to blame for the chill you feel in your bones. The ice in Billy's cold blue stare as he looks right at you. "Sorry I'm so hard to love."

No… You go to touch him again, but he shrinks away from you. Standing and going back to the window. "Wait, Billy please. I didn't mean it that way. Baby, you know that."

He was already halfway out the window when the panic returned. There was still so much left unsaid. Unfinished. If he leaves, you might not ever see him again. So in a final desperate move, you held on tight to his jacket. The worn leather scratching against your soft skin.

"Y/n." The ice remained, so detached and void of affection. Like you were just a stranger on the street. "Let me go."

Your breathing was erratic, coming out of your mouth is sharp gasps. You kept your hold on him tight. Gripping on like his life depended on it. "Please don't. Please." There were too many thoughts to make sense of. Too many possibilities. But the alarm bells were clear. Something was very wrong. "I'm scared, Billy! Please don't make me let go."

He was your life raft, in the ocean of anxiety starting to pull you under. Or were you his? It felt like this tug of war was more for his survival than yours. That only made you more determined to keep pulling. Not caring if he protested. You will drag him out of his grave kicking and screaming if you must. Besides, with him hanging on to the side of your house, he had no free hand to fight you.

"Y/n… I've never hurt you." At least in the physical sense. Not any pain that didn't involve the act of sex. He was set on not mimicking his father in that particular way. Anymore. You brought that out in him. So much that he even eased up on Max a little. Looking back on the way he had gripped her wrist almost a year ago, made him feel sick. Sickened because he remembered California. Remembered Neil's hand on his mother's wrist just the same. "Don't make me force this. Let. Me. Go." A more unhinged version of himself would've already ripped himself out of your grasp. It was in him. Just beneath the surface.

This was the last thing you wanted. A scolding, maybe. He deserved that much. A full-blown fight was never the plan. How naive of you. Things with Billy rarely go as you plan. You didn't even plan on falling in love with him. A love that stabbed you when you allowed your fingers to loosen up and release his jacket. Whispering the last bit of strength. "I love you."

"I know."

He climbed back down to his Camaro, without a second glance. Looking back would risk it all. It could break him. Make him turn back on this whole plan altogether. You made him too weak. Weakness won't help him where he's going. "I love you too." He whispered back, once he was safely hidden away in his car. Drowned out by the rumble of him peeling off down the street.

When my time comes

Forget the wrong that I've done

Help me leave behind some reasons to be missed

For once, the dangerous way he sped down the road brought no thrill, or even a cocky sense of pride. He usually felt above it all. Above Hawkins, and its lack of upgraded name brands, beaches, and city structures. Too much grass, not enough sun, and the place reeked of cow shit. In a way, his Camaro kept the line in the sand. He's not from here. He's not one of them.

Until that's just what he became. Or he thought he did. He thought he became a part of Hawkins, despite his constant fights against it. He won basketball games for and with them. Partied hard with them. Begrudgingly helped some of his teammates with their basic ass school work, so they wouldn't get kicked off the team. Helped teach their twerps how to swim, and even saved the occasional milf from purposely 'almost drowning' for his attention. Then, like the final nail in his coffin, he even fell in love with a Hawkins girl. Built roots here. Silently made plans. Got used to the cold.

Maybe it was karma that Hawkins didn't accept him. After all, none of it's other residents (besides you) were looking for him. Not the teammates he helped. Not the horny mothers of the kids he helped. None of the people who once showered him with praise.

I was right. Hawkins would move on without me.

You wouldn't. He couldn't lie to himself about that anymore. Not after seeing the way you begged him not to leave. Time will just have to heal that wound on its own. He could hope that the little folded piece of paper in his back pocket might help.

On his way down the dark road, shadowed by large trees, he took a quick peek at the rearview mirror. Tilting it down a little so he could assess the damage to his face. Of course Neil would always aim for one of the things he took pride in. After reviling him for putting effort into the way he looks, whenever Neil caught him in front of the mirror. Thankfully the bruises always fade, and he's never left any permanent physical scars.

In a flash, something heavy landed on his windshield. It put him on high alert, swerving off the street in an immediate action to get the 'thing' off his car. Not the first thing he'd do if he were a little more prepared, and had time to think. Nobody plans for something like this.

"Ugghh.. fuckin' piece of shit!" Billy yelled, slamming his hand down on the dashboard. The car skidded roughly into a cluster of bushes and rocks, just outside of some abandoned steel mill. His precious vehicle stuttered and creaked, windshield severely cracked by whatever the hell hit it. With a frustrated grunt, he got out to look it over. There was no way a squirrel and some bushes caused this much destruction. The thing didn't look big enough to be a deer when he caught that glimpse of it.

No. Crashing his car in the middle of nowhere near an abandoned steel mill wasn't part of the plan.

Neither was the two seconds of his heart stopping, once he felt something slither around his ankle and tighten.

And don't resent me

And when you're feeling empty

Keep me in your memory

Leave out all the rest

It was six in the morning when you got the call. The sun had just started to filter in through your curtains, and for a moment you forgot what happened last night. The haze of sleep was still halfway blurring your vision. It helped that your eyes were too puffy and sore to open fully.

Riiiing!! Riiiing!!

The cream-colored phone on your nightstand woke up the headache that was waiting for you. Screaming its high pitched battle cry and cutting off your peaceful moment. No amount of hours spent weeping have ever gone by without consequence. You stuck your arm out from under your blanket cocoon and felt around until your fingers wrapped around the shaking receiver. Jeeez, make it stop!

"Hello?" You croaked into the phone.

"Is this Y/n?"

The soft female voice was familiar, but you couldn't quite put your finger on who it belonged to. Whoever it was sounded young. Younger than anyone you'd usually associate with. "Yeah, uh that's me. Do I know you?"

"No…" The girl sniffled. Was she crying? You weren't sure, but you thought you heard a small whimper. "We- He never brought you around, so I guess we didn't get to meet. But I found your number on this-" Yup, she was crying. The way she kept trying to swallow it down and continue her sentence reminded you of… "It's Max."

Oh shit. Billy.

"Max?" It was back all over again. Your heart couldn't seem to catch a break from its high-speed marathon. "Is something wrong with Billy?"

There was shuffling on the other end of the phone. A few seconds of distant shouting, then Max was back. Speaking in a hushed tone. "I can't talk about it here. Can I come to you? Like, now?"

You were sprouting up from your mess of blankets before you could even answer. Hurrying to get dressed as you gave her your address. Turns out you lived close to one of her friends, so it would be easy for her to find you. Fifteen minutes tops. Just enough time to straighten up the messy state your room was in. The Hawkins map was still sprawled out, thrown onto the floor by you kicking your way out of bed. Markers scattered. A few trinkets tossed around in last night's meltdown were here and there, all over the place. Billy may not have been super fond of the little girl, but she was 'family' all the same. In a way. You weren't sure where your relationship with Billy stood, but you still felt the need to make a good impression. Who knows? You could be meeting your future sister-in-law.

Wouldn't that be nice? Marrying that man. Maybe a beach wedding, so he could be reunited with the waves he spoke so fondly about. Honeymooning under the sun, curled up together in a hammock. Far away from Hawkins. Far away from his father. That asshole wouldn't get an invitation. You'd probably elope. All you ever needed was each other. He was more than enough.

Sweet fantasies, to keep you from spiraling over what could possibly be so urgent.

Forgetting

All the hurt inside you've learned to hide so well

Max made it to your door in ten minutes. Wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, while the other hand hoisted her skateboard up to her hip. Without waiting for her to introduce herself or even ask to come inside, you stepped out of her way so she could enter. Your mother wasn't due back from her overnight shift for at least another two hours. Overtime was a bitch, but it kept the lights on.

At first she just stood there, looking down at her hands as she picked at the skin around her nail. "I-…" Her voice was breaking. "...The cops called us this morning. About two hours ago. They found… Billy's car. It was on fire, near the old steel mill. No sign of Billy, but they found this in the seat. Said it must've fell out of his pocket."

She held out a folded piece of paper, burned a little at the bottom of the page. The words she spoke were still sitting on the surface of your mind. They found Billy's car… no sign of Billy… You took the note, handling it with more care than a parent holding a newborn baby. The crisped burnt section tinted your fingertips with small bits of ash.

'Hey, baby Y/n,

I don't know when you're gonna read this, and I don't even know what to say. But I have to say SOMETHING. So I'll cut to the point. I didn't do this because I don't love care about you or whatever. I do. So much I almost didn't go through with it. But it's the best thing. For me, and for everyone who ever knew me. I just need to disappear.

So dont bother looking for me or anything. Look out for the little shithead, if you can. I put your number on her bed before I left. She can be a bitch sometimes, but you have a habit of liking assholes so she'll fit right in.

I'm sorry I didn't-'

The last two or three lines were badly singed, and completely unreadable. Eaten away by flames with no way to recover them. An abrupt and sharp cut, cruelly mimicking the situation in its entirety. What conclusion could you come to? Did he run away and leave Hawkins? Did he get hurt in a car crash? Or did he…

The final possibility punched you, pulling out a scream you didn't realize you were holding in. Your knees met the hardwood floor with bruising force. Still clutching the note in your hand, you held yourself, dry heaving between sobs. Max's skateboard fell as she knelt by your side, joining you in grief and confusion. Letting her small arms awkwardly wrap around your shoulders. You two didn't know each other at all, but right now you were the only two that understood each other. The only ones that heard the news of William 'Billy' Hargrove's disappearance and felt the loss.

Pretending

Someone else can come and save me from myself

It was only a week until the authorities changed his case from a 'Missing Person's' to 'An Accidental Death'. Hopper barely had any say in the matter, regardless of his position. Even he had an overhead. No matter how much he argued "The kid is probably still out there. We didn't find a body or any blood." The mayor, and an unnatural amount of shifty looking men in dark suits, ended all searches. Billy's father even had a pathetically small and cheap funeral service. Gave him an empty plot in the cemetery, and a headstone. Then ran away in the middle of the night, like the coward he is. Just left Max and her mom all alone with no support.

That's where you came in.

You couldn't house them, unfortunately - You and your own mom were barely getting by - but you always brought food to their trailer. When you got your license, you drove Max to and from school. You let her sleep over at your place whenever her mom got drunk. You gave her whatever clothes you couldn't fit anymore. It was Billy's final wish, and he was right. She did fit right in. In no time the two of you were inseparable. Which meant also coming to know her crew of friends too. Shining a new light on the way you saw Steve, Nancy and Jonathan. Although you'd always hold a bit of resentment towards them. Deep inside. Maybe, if they'd cared when you first called them, he would still be here. You may not have had all the friends you do now, but you'd have him. That would've been enough.

You vented to Max about it often. How much it killed you that his disappearance did in fact make multiple things 'better' in your life. It filled you with more rage than you could stand, and you'd even picked up smoking to cope. Laughing at the irony, since you tried many times in vain to make Billy kick the habit.

Billy…he deserved so much more than to be this town's sacrificial lamb.

I can't be who you are…

Max gasped when she heard the sound of your car approaching. It was loud enough to hear, before you even entered the trailer park. Music blaring, and an arm lazily slung out of the window with a lit cigarette between your fingers. It was something she still worked on getting used to. It's not him… She grabbed onto her backpack with a sigh and made her way outside. Whispering a 'see you later' to her mom, slumped over and snoring on the couch. Empty beer cans cluttering up the space between her and the television.

"Someone's gonna be late for their first day of high school if she doesn't move her ass!" You called out in a playful voice, honking the horn until you saw her close and lock the trailer door behind her. It was eerie, getting into your Camaro. It wasn't the exact shade of blue as Billy's, but it was blue nonetheless. Cost you half of the college fund you never planned on actually using for college, and a LOT of searching to get it. You refused to buy any other car. This one was special to you.

"Someone's in a mood today." Max mumbled, shutting the passenger's side door gently. She could still hear the way Billy cursed when she slammed it, the first time he'd given her a ride.

You smiled at her, happy to be a part of her journey into the teenage jungle known as high school. "Buckle up, Buttercup. It's about to be a big day for you."

"I'll buckle up if you never call me that again." Max couldn't help but grin through her sarcasm.

"Deal."

Dust kicked up as you sped away. Nowhere near as recklessly fast as Billy's driving, but Max was there earlier than she needed to be. Leaving with a wave and a promise to see you later. The promise made your gut wrench. You've heard it before. Now twice you've had that promise go unfulfilled.

Where do you go for the next few hours? Your usual spot. Parked outside of that abandoned steel mill. Smoking and bawling your eyes out. Some days you'd even ponder the idea of entering that dark place. Maybe he got hurt and went inside to find shelter or supplies to help? It made no sense. There'd likely be no medical supplies in an abandoned place like this. Billy would know that. He's smart. Nobody even knew what it was that hit his car and caused it to catch fire. Or they didn't tell the public what they knew.

Maybe Billy went in there to… A darker thought entered your mind, and you refused to entertain it. It's that thought that kept you from ever searching inside. Afraid that you just might find him. Or what was left. Snuffing out any small hopes that he was out in California somewhere, living a happy new life.

The building in question creaked, echoing throughout the empty space inside and out. Settling, and wailing under the faint pressure from the breeze. There was something else. A light…tapping? A shuffle? Something. Something was inside there. Something that made a chill run down your spine.

You could almost hear Billy's voice in the back of your head. Calling you a dumbass for even thinking about looking inside. Looking for him. Whatever it was, it scared you. Plus, Max would be looking for you in an hour. No time to play adventurer today.

Even when you were long gone, and back on your way to Hawkins High School. The old steel mill creaked and something within its walls was gurgling. Squelching and slithering across the floor of the basement. Waiting for it's next opportunity to grow.

✝ A/N: Holy smokes, this is the longest one I've written so far. ♡ I'd love to hear whatever conclusions you come to, on how the story ends. As always, feedback and reblogs are appreciated. ✨️ Hugs for everyone! Especially after reading this. 😬

Masterlist, Ao3 ☆

#stranger things #billy hargrove #billy hargrove angst #billy hargrove x you #billy hargove x reader #billy hargrove x fem!reader #billy hargrove fic #song fic

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itsyou-itsme-itsus · 3 years ago

Text

Gambled away: Chapter 4

Dark!Steve x fem!reader

Warnings: 18 + ONLY MINORS DNI!!! Noncon, themes of Stockholm/kidnapping and CNC. Oral sex male and female receiving. P in V intercourse. gagging, spit. Unprotected sex (stay safe wrap it up) use of Daddy. rough sex. (If this bothers you please scroll on by. Its 100 percent fantasy.)

Notes: This one might be long.

Steve hung up the phone, he couldn’t see what you and Nat had put together for him. It would be about 12:30 am when he finally made it home. He stepped out into the brisk chilly night air, just outside Stark industries.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you, how he wanted to feel you tightly wrapped around him as he sunk his full length inside of you. He took a moment listening to the sounds of the city, cars honk and the clatter of trash cans.

Fury had called about Scott trying to make a police report on Steve. Nat had left the safe house where you were being kept to go straight to the police station to handle the situation. Maybe a little jail time would help Scott to get over you.

Steve climbed into the drivers seat shutting the door, when the passengers side door swung open and Sharon jumped in.

“Hey.” She smiled, she had a black hoodie pulled over her uniform.

“What do you want Sharon?” Steve grumbled, annoyed with yet another obstacle stopping him from wetting his dick with your pussy.

“I just thought we’d go have a couple drinks tonight, its been awhile.” She grinned her hand reached out and caressing Steve’s knee with her finger tips.

Steve sighed and peeled her hand away and setting it back in her lap. They had dated a couple years ago and it was fun having someone like her, who would jump in on being a dirty cop for him, Bucky and Nat. After awhile he had gotten bored with her clinginess and jealousy.

“I’m busy Sharon, go home.” Steve started up the car and Sharon ignored him, she stayed in the car.

“That’s ok, I can go home with you and we can hang out after you’re done.” She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth and scratched at the back of Steve’s neck.

It was Sharon’s way of letting Steve know she wanted to be the one for him to take out all his sexual aggression on.

Steve didn’t say anything he pulled out of the parking spot and began driving. He headed towards Sharon place to avoid the possible conflict if she found out Steve was keeping you.

Sharon had never been the type he could imagine having kids with, she was too selfish and conniving to be a stay at home mom. Maybe she’d be perfect for someone else but she admitted she didn’t even want kids. Although that didn’t mean she wasn’t the type to get pregnant just to keep someone around.

You on the other hand, Steve knew you’d make a great wife and a stay at home mom. He was never the type to get married and live a white picket fence life. If he liked you after tonight and you were a real peach in bed, He won’t pass up on that opportunity.

The streets were wet from a rain fall earlier that evening. The traffic lights reflected off the shiny asphalt. Sharon’s apartment was seven blocks away which would put Steve back about 20 minutes.

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Sharon had been talking about something she did with Carol and Sam. He couldn’t be bothered to give her any of his mind’s attention as you had reserved all the space for the night.

The picture Nat had sent him with you laying on the bed, sitting up with your back against the head board. The same one he’d be gripping for leverage later on. Your cleavage looked stunning as the red dress clung tightly to each curve. Your makeup was perfect just enough to ruin it.

Thought of kissing those ruby red plump lips. His favorite part was how Nat positioned you, your legs slightly spread so he could see the outline of your puffy sex through the red panties. How the thigh highs hugged just right to the thickest part of your legs. The way she almost got you to smile just for him.

Steve almost missed the turn, the tires screeched loudly as they skidded across the wet ground.

“Whoa, someone’s eager.” Sharon laughed as they turned the corner. He was eager, just not for Sharon.

Steve parked his car just on the curb in front of the door that lead to the staircase of Sharon’s apartment complex.

“Go change into something sexier. I don’t want to fuck a cop.” Sharon rolled her eyes a chuckled but she listened and practically bounced out of the car.

Steve waited watching her disappear up the stairs, he could only see to the second floor. Sharon lived on the third floor, 4th apartment back. He waited a few minutes to be sure that she was on her floor before he curved the tires and peeled out.

Steve sped the entire way home, the clock in the car read 12:15am. It didn’t matter if you were sleeping or not when Steve got home, you’d wake up with his cock buried deep inside of you.

Sharon put on the small light blue dress, not only did it look great in contrast to her blonde hair and blue eyes, Steve had loved her ass in it. She fixed her hair and pulled on the blue strappy heels to match.

Sharon knew in her gut Steve had ditched her, the space where he had been was empty except for some trash.

“Steve?” She yelled out and walked a few feet, her hips swaying and heels clacking on the wet side walk.

She peered around the corner and then looked down both sides of the street, Steve’s car was gone.

“Fuck!” She spat, marching angrily into her apartment building. The sound of her heel magnified in the empty hallway. She pulled her phone out and began to call Carol.

“I think he likes that cunt!” Sharon growled into the phone slamming the door behind her with one foot.

“What do you want to do?” Carol asked she sat at the station with her feet propped up on the desk.

“Find out what you can about her from Scott. Pretend like you’re going to help him if you want.” Sharon snapped before hanging up. She kicked her heels off one flying across the room and the other one just a few feet away.

****************

Your stomach gurgled and you weren’t sure if it was from hunger or nerves. You had tried to sleep hoping that would save you from Steve’s advances if he got back too late. You knew it was late but didn’t know exactly what time it was.

It didn’t feel safe to leave the room so you paced around like a caged tiger at the zoo. The slam of the front door had your heart racing. You stood back from the door staring at it as if it were going to jump at you.

It seemed like time stopped and all you could hear was the blood rushing to your ears. Slowly the knob started to turn. It swung open to reveal Steve, he wore a blue button up dress shirt with the sleeves revealing his forearms and perfectly fitted slacks.

He was breathing heavily, He looked feral as he glanced over your appearance. He advanced towards you, making you back up until you bumped into the bed.

Steve towered over you, your body flush against his. His hands took a moment to follow the curves of your body that the dress accentuated beautifully. You remembered once your mother had told you not to let boys get too close to you, because once their hands started roaming it would feel like their hands were everywhere. This was the first time you truly understood what she meant. Steve pressed his forehead against yours, His hands sliding over your shoulders beneath the thin straps. He pushed them down running his hands over your arms. When the dress came dangerously close to sliding the material down exposing your breasts you jerked your arms up to block him. He squeezed your arms painfully as a warning.

“I’m tired of waiting.” He growled, the material brushing your nipples causing them to pebble. He leaned forward and kiss you, his lips parting yours so he could slip his tongue in your mouth. You didn’t kiss him back, but you allowed him to do what he wanted.

The dress was below your rib cage. One hand cupped your chin roughly tilting your head up. His tongue pushed against yours, finally you gave in and moved your tongue and lips with his. His other hand calloused and strong groped your breasts. He squeezed them and ran his thumbs over the tips of your nipples. It coaxed out a soft moan that was swallowed by Steve’s hungry lips. Scott never touched you or kissed you like this. It was always gentle, and he’d always check in with you, asking for your consent. Steve was going to take what he wanted for from you, man handling your body. Your mind and body struggled with conflict. Tears streamed down your cheeks out of fear, yet you pressed your thighs together feeling an ache within, wetness pooling inside your panties.

Steve’s hands followed your curves pushing the soft red material down to your hips. It snagged snuggly over your butt. He yanked downward the fabric ripping a little the material sat over your thighs pinning your legs together. He gripped your ass cheeks kneading and spreading them. Another moan slithered out from your throat. He couldn’t help himself he landed a sharp slap to your ass cheek feeling it jiggle before roughly grabbing it again. You whined and winced still smothered by his heated kiss.

Steve pulled back looking over your body he shoved you back onto the bed, pulling the dress the rest of the way off. He sneered at the wet spot on your panties.

“What a slutty pussy. You act like you don’t want me, but I know you do.” He pushed your legs apart; you covered your face too embarrassed that you were becoming aroused by his touch.

He drug his index finger from the wet spot up, pressing in to define your slit as he rubbed up until he pressed against your clit. the thin fabric doing very little to shield you from his touches. It only took a soft whimper before he was growing impatient with you. He pulled your panties off and knelt between your thighs. You smelled wonderful, he sniffed your soiled panties rubbing his nose along your slit, before kissing your upper thighs. His bread tickling your sensitive skin. It felt good, in away you hadn’t experienced before. He bit at the ample flesh making you squirm. Kissing his way along your folds tasting the sweet tanginess of your wet skin. He nuzzled closer as his hands pushed your thighs further apart. Your pussy betrayed you and flowered for him. He looked at you glisten and drip with sweet honey. His tongue dipped in gliding up opening your more, savoring the taste before he reached your pearl. He looked up to see you nervously looking down at him.

He smirked before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking you groaned and your head tipped back. His tongue lashed at your clit, it made your legs tremble. Having not been able to touch yourself or to have alone time mixed with all the stress made it so much more sensitive to be touched in this way.

Steve was careful to watch you, chest heaving as small moans escaped your reluctant lips. He attacked your clit with a feral hunger pushing you towards the edge, his beard adding to the sensation as it collected your nectar in it. That familiar coil heated deep within, tightening as that tingling feeling threatened to explode through your body like a super nova. It prickled its way along your spine, building to something stronger. You were beginning to lose your inhibitions. Steve liked upwards and began to kiss your stomach.

“Steve! wh-a? please.” You begged feeling confused as to why he stopped. The coils cooled as your body felt feverish and your pussy cramped with an ache to be filled.

“You’ll have to wait for making me wait for so long.” He kissed his way up your stomach leaving a trail of his saliva and your wetness. He kissed your breasts pushing his palms against the swell of them. He sucked one nipple into his mouth licking at the rubbery nub. His teeth grazing it gently making you arch your back and moan.

His kisses continued until he was licking along your jawline. Steve made you taste your own arousal on his lips. This time you kissed him back with your own hunger. He got on his knees bringing you up with him. The sound of his buckling clanking open followed by the sound of his zipper he pulled his pants down.

“Suck it.” He hissed fisting a handful of your hair as he pushed you down. His cock was huge, thick with an angry red bulbous tip, precum pearled at the end. You licked at it like a lollipop tasting the salty liquid. He pushed you down a few inches until your lips stretched around it and the tip poked your throat. You sucked in a deep breath trying not to gag.

He let you lick at the base and adjust to his length and girth before pulling your head back until the tip was resting on your tongue. He didn’t move his hips he just pulled and pushed your head up and down his cock as if you were just a fleshlight. Your jaw ached trying to accommodate his size as he worked more and more of himself inside your throat. In and out he slid himself deeper, finally you heaved and coughed as he lodged his dick in your warm throat. Your nose touched his pubes, swallowing instinctively as if trying to get rid of the object blocking your air ways. You slapped his thighs and tried to push back in fear he’d suffocate you, he held you tightly against him before pulling back. You gasped for air feeling the burn as your lungs filled back up with air.

spit and precum bubbled and dripped down your chin, He used your head to bob faster up and down his length not caring when you sputtered and gagged. His balls slapping your chin as he grunted, enjoying the feeling of your throat contract around his dick. He pulled you back with saliva and cum bridging between his angry red tip and your wet swollen lips.

“Lay down.” He husked lust filling his tone. He kneeled between your legs rubbed his cock up and down your slit. His tip nudged your clit mixing his precum with your slick.

“Beg me for it.” He demanded watching your face as he pushed his dick through your folds teasingly nudging at your entrance. Tears welled up in your eyes and you shook your head no.

“So we want to be bratty huh?” Steve pulled back a bit before landing hard slap with his hand on your pussy. You tried to shut your legs but his body blocked you. The sting spread through your folds and into your clit. He pushed you legs open again and then landed another hard slap, this time it stung even more.

“Aaah, Please Steve!” You cried out struggling to shield yourself but Steve caressed your clit with his thumb lowering your guard before delivering another rough slap to your pussy. You wailed and cried. It was becoming too painful and each time he slapped harder.

“Please fuck my pussy! I need it! I need you!!” You trembled under him waiting for him to spank your pussy again. Instead he lined himself at your entrance again. He was bigger than Scott for sure.

“Good girl.”

The tip pressed in already beginning to stretch you open, he went slow watching your tight hole spread wide to fit his length. His thumb rubbing circles over your clit. A gasp left your lips, and he grunted when the tip breached your walls. It would of been painful if you hadn’t been so wet. Still it tightly stretched over his girth like glove. Gripping the bed sheets you feared he would split you in half.

“Please! it won’t fit!” you cried when he pushed deeper. Steve gently hushed you, like trying to calm a frightened child. He pushed in until his tip pressed hard against your cervix almost painfully, if he pushed anymore he might break through it. He held it there watching you struggle in discomfort trying to allow you to adjust to his size.

Steve sighed in pleasure this was the moment he had been waiting for. It was so warm and tight hugging his cock perfectly. The pressure making his tip swell and his shaft twitch, He knew you could feel it too. He grabbed your breasts massaging them as he watched himself slide out inch by inch before resting the tip in the opening. Your walls clinging to him, trying to suck him back in. He pushed in feeling the delicious resistance again before bottoming out. He slowly repeated this in and out until you were panting and squirming.

“Yeah, you like daddy’s cock?” He husked teasing your nipple as he found his rhythm thrusting faster. Your body bounced beneath him with each thrust. He loved how your breasts jiggled with each thrust. Your pussy felt raw and sore, still that familiar tightening of tingling coils began to heat again. His pubes stimulating your clit.

“I asked you a question.” He hissed gripping your chin as he roughly pinched your nipple causing you to wince and whine.

“I-I love your cock.” Your voice sounded odd, small and submissive as it got lost in a sea of breathy moans.

Steve’s fingers slide down finding your neck. He gently squeezed feeling your pulse under his thumb. He kept the same pace but was slamming in hard enough to bruise your cervix. You wailed bouncing roughly with each thrust in. He kept pulling your nipple taught, the pain mixed with pleasure only made your body tighten more ready to release an intense feeling you had never felt before. A heady euphoria set in each time Steve squeezed your throat a little more. To his surprise you wrapped your legs around his waist and began bouncing to meet his thrusts.

“Steve!” You rasped chanting his name as your back arched, Steve realized you were close to cumming again. “Steve it hurts!” You cried.

“I know, it feels so good for daddy.” You began to tremble underneath Steve’s bulking frame. There was something about feeling so small beneath a man who was ruining you that made you feel so right.

“You gonna cum for me baby? Yeah, come on, cum all over Daddy’s dick.” Steve thrust harder his lips trailing along your collarbone.

“Yes! gonna cum for you daddy!” The words slipped out of your mouth before you knew what you were saying. Your whole body felt feverish and electrified as you tightened and loosened around him, a throbbing sensation cascaded from your belly and into your entire body. Steve did long strokes drawing out your orgasm as you shuddered and shook against him. Your walls clamped around his cock like a vice, pulsing and milking him. He grunted at the tighteness and the sounds of your high-pitched whines. Lewd squelching and slapping filled the room as your cream coated his thick cock.

Steve began pistoning in and out of you he pushed you pass your orgasm and overstimulating you. He planned to draw this out, but watching you come undone on his dick sent him over the edge. The whole bed violently slammed against the wall with his thrusts as you screamed for him.

“My dick is bigger than Scott’s isn’t it?” Steve growled in your ear. Steve pinned you down to the mattress by your throat.

“I want to hear you say it.” You could barely think as he pounded you roughly.

“Y-hess.” Incoherent garbles was all that came out as Steve coaxed one last orgasm from your body using it to milk his cock. His hands gripped your hips bruisning them as he pushed and pulled you slamming you up and down on his dick like a toy.

“Fuck!” He groaned his thrusts growing sloppy as he pushed in deep pressed against your cervix.

“N-nnnno-uh! Steve d-don cum in me. Please!” Steve ignored your pleas and moaned as the first spurts of hot cum splashed your walls. He huffed as he held you down by your hips tightly keeping you in place as He came filling your sore pussy.

Sweat dripped off his brow as he stroked himself inside you, squeezing out the last drops of cum inside you. He waited until he began to soften before sliding it out. He did so with a slight pop causing the entrance of your used canal to tingle from sensitivity. Your pussy felt too empty as if it needed his dick to fill it. His cum oozed out of you and made a small puddle on the bed. You wanted to scream and panic about his cum sitting inside you.

What if you got pregnant? You would truly be trapped then. Steve laid down and pulled you close to him, your hot wet and sticky naked bodies pressed in warmth together. Despite Steve roughly taking you, the way he held you tightly to him, made you feel safe in this moment. It became harder and harder to stay awake. Steve peppered gentle kisses along the shell of your ear.

“You never answered me.” Steve husked basking in the glow of your post sex beauty.

“You are bigger.” As if he had won some feat he grinned pressing one last kiss to your temple before settling in. The two of you quickly fell asleep in a tangled mess of limbs and soiled sheets. Tags

Tags: @cjand10 @existentialvacuum

@helenaeisenhower @psychadelichues

#gambled away fic #steve rogers x you #dark steve x you #dark!Steve rogers #noncon fics #chris evans fanfiction #CE character #Steve Rogers #captain america

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twjournals · 4 years ago

Text

forbidden fruit | dark!bucky barnes x dark!steve rogers x reader

Warning: dark!Bucky Barnes x dark!cop!Steve Rogers x fem!reader, eventual non-con/dub-con, stalking, misogyny, possessive/obsessive behavior, housewife kink, corrupt law enforcement, mentions of murder

Word Count: almost 2.6k

Summary: you’re the forbidden fruit and unfortunately both the town’s hero and mystery have their eyes on you.

If you have gotten this far, it means you have read and understood my warnings. I AM NOT responsible for your consumption. Don’t read if you are sensitive to any of the warnings.

* series masterlist

tag list: @underdevelopedangst @buckysdxll @syrenavenger @iwannabekilledtwice @blackksunflower12 @simpformarvelmenandwoman

The restaurant went quiet when the bell rang above his head. It was an intimidating staring contest between residents and new comers. It was expected when you were a new face in a small town. Everyone knew everyone, and anyone new threw off their routine, made them curious.

Bucky took a look around for moment before lowering his head when he realized the stares was not letting up anytime soon. He walked over to the nearest empty table and slid into the booth. He sat his book down on the table.

He kept his head down while he picked at his gloves underneath the table. He was mentally counting how long it might take for folks to stop staring.

You glanced around at your coworkers who had yet to move from their spots to serve him. You sighed to yourself as you continued checking out the elderly couple in front of you. You thanked them for their business and wished them a good rest of the day as you did any other customer.

You shook your head at their stares. It was one of the downfalls about living in a small town. People were quick to judge and treat you as an outsider.

“No worries. I’ve got it.” You moved around the counter past them with a menu in your hands. Business was business no matter the face.

You sat the menu down on the table and his blue eyes were quick to look up at you. A smile came to your lips. “Good morning. Can I get you started with something to drink?” You pulled your notepad out to write his order.

“Morning.” He mumbled quietly, avoid looking at the menu. He already knew what wanted. “Just a cup of coffee.”

“Black or cream and sugar?”

“Black is fine.” He handed you the menu back to you. You took noticed of the gloves on his hands and you took the menu from him.

You nodded as you tucked your notepad back into the waist pocket of your apron.

“You know, I don’t know how open you are to trying things in a new town, but if I could recommend something it would be our breakfast platter.” You attempted and he pulled his gaze away from his stare out of the window to look at you.

“That obvious, huh?”

You started to pinch your thumb and index finger together slightly and he chuckled. You smiled at the small rumble of his laugh. “Maybe just a little.”

“Uh, I’m not really that hungry. I’ll just stick to that coffee.”

“I’ll be back with your coffee then.”

You start to walk back behind the counter to make his coffee. You grabbed a clean mug, pouring some freshly brewed coffee for him before returning to his table. His head was already down and buried in the book he had brought with him.

You sat the mug down on the table. “Your coffee. Can I get you anything else?”

He shook his head as he wrapped his gloved hands over the steaming mug and pulling it to him. “Thank you for the coffee though.”

You watched for a moment before smiling. “Well I’ll come check on you in a little bit, but if you need anything before then, I’ll be right over here. Just call me over.” You turned to leave.

He took a sip of his coffee. “What should I call you?”

You paused for a moment. “Hm?” You turned back to him.

“Your name.” He reminded. “What should I call you?”

You laughed at the realization you had not yet told him your name. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s Y/n.”

“Y/n..” He repeated back to himself. “Pretty.” He turned his attention back to his reading. You smiled to yourself as you walked away from the table.

It threw you off how he was a man of very few words. It was different compared to the mouthy guys around here. Mostly because everyone knew each other so there was no reason to be hush.

You walked around, cleaning up a few tables for the next guests, refilling drinks and offering desserts. You took a glance over at him in his booth still reading. You took in his stubbled face and shoulder-length hair. It was longer than most men around town. There was no doubt he stood out in this crowd.

When he came back the next day, you found yourself right back at his table to serve him when every other waitress was hesitant. As well as the next. It was never a problem though. He was quiet, but he answered anytime you spoke to him. He quickly fell into a part of your routine at work.

“Would you like a refill?” You offered, pulling his attention away from his book. He nodded, pushing his empty towards you.

“Please. Thank you.” He smiled slightly, pulling the mug back to him once you had filled it.

Instead of walking away, you remained in place by his table making him peek up at you. “Ya know, you know my name, but you never told me yours.”

“I didn’t think it was important.” He admitted, taking another sip of his coffee.

“I know all my customers by name.” You sat the coffee pot down on the table in front of you.

“All?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Well, my regulars I do.” You corrected yourself. It was like a staring contest between the two of you and you were determined to win. “I like to know my customers.”

He sat for a moment in thought. He held his place in his book before he finally gave in. “Bucky.” His eyes watched you for a reaction.

“Pretty.” You repeated what he had once told you. It was different.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth and you grinned back at him. “Enjoy your coffee, Bucky.” You grabbed the coffee pot before strolling away from his table to the next table over.

“Refills for anyone?” You smiled at the table of uniformed officers. You refilled the cups you handed to you before passing them back. You looked at the ones who hadn’t answered and they shook their heads.

Steve cleared his throat beside you when everyone seemed to share glances his way. He shot them a glare before you turned to him. “Steve? Did you need something?”

He put his hand up with a smile. “No, thank you.” You nodded. “We’ll take our checks though.”

“Oh, of course.” You smiled as you reached into your waist apron and pulling out your book of checks. You torn each of theirs off and handed it to each of them.

One of the other officer nudged Steve underneath the table and he kicked them with a glare.

You could sense the tension but you didn’t ask. “Well if there is nothing else, I’ll be up here when you’re ready to pay.”

The men watched you as you walked away. Your hips naturally swayed with every step you took.

“You’ve got it bad, Steve.” One of the other officers spoke up and the rest of the table roared with laughter.

Steve kept watching you as you turned the corner of the counter while he shuffled in his pockets for his wallet. “I do not.”

The table still snickered. “That’s definitely a new record. That’s the most you’ve ever spoken to her since you came back.”

“And?” He mumbled as he stood up from the table to let the men on his side out of the booth.

Thor threw his arm around Steve’s shoulder and patted it. “Come on. Lighten up. Just having some fun. You’re acting like she wouldn’t accept you back. Look at you. Handsome face, strong, man of the law. Women would kill to marry a man in a uniform.” He attempted to hype him up.

Steve was still uncertain. Thor led him through the diner toward the counter to pay.

“Hey, Officer Rogers.” A few college girls sitting at the counter purred.

“Ladies.” Steve waved back casually with a smile.

The girl quickly started giggling amongst each other as they sip on their milkshakes. The breakfast rush had just died down only to start lunch.

Thor slapped his shoulder his hand was still rested on. “That, my friend. That’s what I’m talking about. You’re such a heartthrob and don’t even realize it, Rogers.”

Steve could hardly take notice of other woman when you were right there behind the counter. You were cashing out each of their tickets one by one until you got to Steve.

“I’ll be in the car.” He winked at Steve before disappearing out the front entrance to the cruiser. Anything to get him alone with you.

Steve was the last of the squad to approach the counter. He handed you his ticket before opening his wallet. He could hear you punching buttons on the register as he gathered his money. He thought about what Thor had said. Remembered the girls at the counter beside him. He could feel their stares, hear their school girl giggles.

“How was everything?” Your voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Hm? Oh, it was good. As always.” He praised and you smiled, telling him his total and collecting the cash from him. “So uh- how have you been? You look good.” He scratched the back of his neck slightly.

You glanced up at him, gathering his change. “How’s work been?” He continued, trying to start a conversation with you.

‘Busy, but that’s expected.” You shrug your shoulders while handing him his change back.

He could not get over how gorgeous you had gotten. He looked past you at the old photographs on the wall from over the years the owner liked to pin up. A photograph of the you both from school. It was right after he had won the Championship game and everyone came to the diner to celebrate. It was like that after every win. You were wearing his varsity jacket over your cheer uniform while wrapped up in his arms. Both of you cheesing at the camera.

He wished he could go back and change what had happened between you, but it was far too late for that. With every win, he grew an even bigger head. He once yearned for more than what this small town could provide.

“How’s it feel to be back?” You pulled him from his thoughts. His memories. You shut the drawer and handed over his receipt.

His eyes met yours as he took it. There was no denying the tension between the two of you. The Y/n he once knew had grown up and speaking of grown, you had also grown in all the right places.

“Like I never left.” He meant that to a certain extent because he had left. While everything seemed to fall in place for him when he came back, some things were not that same.

You forced a slight smile. He could feel the feeling building in his chest. Guilt. Regret for things not working out before in the past. For ever wanting more when it felt like it was all in arms reach. He had a lot of figure out about himself.

“Y/n, I just wanted to-”

“Please don’t. Don’t do that.” You shook your head with a small laugh.

He furrowed his brows together in confusion. “Don’t what?”

“I know where you’re going with this. We’re not in high school anymore. You’d made a life for yourself and I’m doing the same. You don’t owe me anything.” You leaned against the counter, wiping it down to keep yourself busy when you stepped away from the register.

“I see that. I want you to know I’m not the guy I once was.” He watched as if you wiped at the counter even though there was not anything on it. He knew this was not the right place or the right time to talk about things, but you were just as stubborn as he remembered.

“You’re right and I’m not the same girl.” You reminded him.

If you would just give him the time of day, you would see that. You would see that he had changed.

“Y/n, can we just-”

“Steve, it’s been good catching up but I have customers to tend to.” You said your goodbyes before you walked around the counter to part ways.

He could hear the whispers around him. A mixture of those who knew their past and those trying to figure it out. He looked around him at the few people staring and they quickly went back to their lunch. His hand tugged at his collar and clearing his throat.

The air was thick was tension. He did not know why he had not of expected that before he opened his mouth.

Maybe it was the fact he always got what he wanted. The fact he never had to work much for anything. Especially not a woman. Thor was right. He did not lack charm, nor looks. He could be very persuasive. So why did he want you so badly? He could have anyone. Maybe it was the fact you did not make this easy for him. Maybe it was the fact he always admired how stubborn you were.

His eyes wondered over to you as he turned to leave. He watched you making your way around to check on your tables.

You were like the forbidden fruit in Eve’s garden, but you were his for the taking. He just needed to have patience.

That’s when he collided with him. Both men quickly exchanging apologies before realizing who they had bumped into. His blood flushes from his face at the site of Bucky and as for Bucky, he looked as surprised as ever to see Steve.

“Well pardon me stranger. Don’t I know you?” The corner of Bucky’s lips perking up into a smirk.

“No.” Steve spat at him, only making the smirk on his face grow.

He had met Bucky before his return. A part of him wished he had arrested or better yet, killed him off before he could follow him back to his hometown. Before he could attempt to drag him down with him.

Steve brushed by him and out the door before he could say any more. He walked over to the cruiser and climbing into the driver seat.

“What was that about?” Thor looked over at Steve as he started the car.

“Nothing.” He muttered as he put the car in reverse to leave. He tried to keep his cool and remain calm. “Just some punk.”

Thor nodded, not asking any more questions as Steve tore out of the parking lot.

Bucky’s eyes never left Steve the whole way of the restaurant. He stood at the counter to pay, smiling when you finally approached him. Maybe this town would not be so bad afterall.

“How was your coffee, Bucky?” You smiled, ringing him up for his coffee.

“It was perfect.” He answered before you told him his total. “You know what, can I get a slice of pie to go?” Your eyes widened slightly. You had never seen Bucky order anything other than his usual black coffee. “I heard from some other customers you make the sweets around here.”

“Well, you heard correct. What’s the special occasion?” You teased while ringing him up.

“I was just thinking I’d finally give this town a chance. Starting with a slice of your pie.” He smiled at you and your own smile grew. You could not be happier to hear that. If only you knew the real reason behind it all.

“Is apple okay?”

“It’s my favorite.” He confirmed, trying to fight the smirk playing on his lips.

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gotnofucks · 4 years ago

Text

Midnight Adventures

Pairing: soft!dark!Steve x Reader

Summary: He thinks you’re trying to escape him, even though he’d made it clear who you belong to. Though the truth is far more innocuous than that.

Words: 2.1k

Warning: Dub-con, past non-con implied, kidnapping, Stockholm syndrome, smut, language. 18+ ONLY

A/N: Inspired by this ask I got . Finally getting back to writing in more than a month.

He was going to tie you to the bed and never let you free. Anger flowed through his veins as he sneaked into the museum, looking around for you. Sam and Bucky snickered behind him, and he resisted the urge to flip them off.

“Cap, can you see any heat signature?” He asked Sam. Sam looked around, turning this way and that until he pointed at the hall on the right.

“That’s your girl right there Steve.” Sam answered, his shield reflecting the dim lights of the museum back. Steve nodded, asking them to stay back and hold off any cops who came in while he went in and got his girl out. Bucky had disabled the alarms you had triggered, but he was sure the place was about to be swarmed with authorities any second now. He had to get you out before that happened.

His feet barely making a sound, he entered the room Sam had pointed and glanced around. The only light streaming in was from the windows, and Steve could see your silhouette moving against one. You were muttering to yourself, stumbling over your own feet as you moved about. He let his gaze wander around the room before fixing it on you again.

You hadn’t realized he was there yet, too lost in your own world. Stepping closer, Steve stood directly behind you and turned his flashlight over you, clearing his throat. You screamed, turning around to look at Steve with a frantic and guilty look in your eyes. Steve opened his mouth to set you straight when he finally caught sight of what you were doing, and he stood there dumbfounded.

It seemed like you were stealing soil. One of the display cases was smashed open and you were transferring the grey soil in there into a glass container in your hand. You stilled, stopping midway in taking more soil as Steve stared at you in utter confusion.

“What on earth are you doing?” He asked, flabbergasted. You gulped, tentatively sealing your jar and putting it back inside the small bag on your back. You stood before him, guilty as small child caught sneaking cookies from the jar. Steve turned his head a little as distant sounds of feet reached his ears. The cops were here.

Without waiting for your answer, he grabbed your arm and pulled you closer to him, his eyes narrowed at you. His arms went around your waist, tugging you right into his body as he silently maneuvered you both towards the exit door at the end, peeking out. Two armed cops were coming this way, the faint sounds of grunts telling him that Sam and Bucky had a few others engaged out in the hall.

“Hold on, and don’t scream.” He whispered in your ear and you nodded, holding him around his neck. He walked over to the window and looked down at the deserted street. Pressing your head into his chest, Steve took a deep breath and jumped out. The wind rushed through your hair and you muffled your scream into his shirt, nails digging in his flesh as he landed swift as a cat on the road.

Without wasting a second, he took you and jogged away, the dark not deterring his steps. You tried to keep up with his large strides, dread and thrill of the chase coursing through your veins. A minute later, a familiar black car pulled up before you, Sam grinning at you from behind the wheel.

“Oh honey, you are in trouble.” He smirked, letting you and Steve in the backseat. The police sirens faded away as you all drove back towards the Avengers compound, Steve’s hand still wrapped around your arm. You chanced a glance at him, shuddering at the sheer anger on his face. Shit. You were a goner.

Steve dragged you back towards his room, ignoring his giggling friends behind. You ducked your head and followed him in silence. It was never a good idea to argue with him. Once inside, he locked the door and turned to you, a frown deepening the lines on his forehead.

“What the hell have I told you about trying to escape?” He growled, body tight with tension. It had been a while since he’d been this pissed at you, and you shivered.

“I wasn’t escaping.” You said, nervously shifting on your feet. Steve came closer to you before tilting your chin you, making you look him in the eyes. His eyes were dark and hard, a promise of punishment rolling in them like waves in an ocean.

“Then what the hell were you doing in that museum? You ran away!”

You shook your head desperately, clutching his shirt in your hands. It had been months since you last tried to escape. You knew how futile it was to keep trying. You could never overpower Steve, not with Bucky and Sam always by his side. You’d made peace with your situation a while ago. Steve had snatched you, had kept you by force. And you accepted it as your life. You’d almost come to…enjoy it even.

“I promise you Steve, I didn’t run away.” You implored, looking deep into his eyes so he could see the truth in yours. Unless you did something really drastic, Steve rarely ever got angry with you these days. It was scary to have him so pissed again.

“What were you doing in that fucking museum?” He asked again. You bit your lip before pulling out the jar of soil from your bag, offering it to Steve. He looked at it and then your face, which curiously held embarrassment along with guilt there.

“I was stealing Lunar Soil.” You admitted, shaking the jar slightly so the fire particles in there shifted. Steve blinked at you before taking the jar and examining it, confused.

“Why?” He asked, putting it aside. You didn’t answer and he scowled, stepping closer and closer until he backed you into the wall and stared you down. Running a finger down the side of your face, he brought his lips to yours in a dangerously soft kiss, his other hand balanced beside your head. “You know I have ways to extract information from you. Would you rather I resort to them?”

You gulped, half in fear and half in anticipation. Steve’s punishments were as much a torture as they were pleasure. He was your captor, but he was also the man who would scale every corner of the earth to give you what you want. His body had a way of making you crave his touch, an intimate solace for whenever your mind turned to how helpless your situation really was.

“I – I wanted to –” You stuttered, suddenly shy and mortified. Steve hummed and urged you to go on, his hand gliding down your side to cup your ass. You slowly peered into his face, scrunching yours nose. “I wanted to use it to make moonscreen.”

Whatever he expected you to say, Steve did not expect it to be that. He raised a brow at you, silently asking you to elaborate and you flushed, pressing your face into his chest to hide from his screening gaze.

“Moonscreen, it’s like, you know, sunscreen but for werewolves.” You said at last. Steve’s hands stilled from kneading your ass, a sort of stunned silence between you both. And then he growled low in his chest. He pushed you away to face you, incredulously staring at you.

“Did you run away from my bed in the middle of the night to steal something for a mythical creature?”

You pouted, playing with the button on his shirt to avoid looking in his angry eyes. It was all Peter’s idea anyway, but he was too much of a wimp to steal the Lunar soil himself. It wasn’t fair how you were bearing the brunt of Steve’s anger alone.

“They are not.” You counted softly. “Werewolves exist.”

Steve gave a strangled groan before crashing his mouth on yours, digging his fingers in your soft flesh as he carried you to the bed and dropped you on it. You moaned, kissing him back as he tore through your clothes like a man possessed. His hands were everywhere, mouth leaving a trail of sinful fire as it moved from your shoulder to your chest.

Your hand went behind his head when he sucked a nipple into his mouth, back arching as you urged him to go faster. Wiggling, you untangled your pants from around your knees, wrapping your legs around Steve. He sat up and stripped quickly, covering your naked body with his again. There was a frenzy in his actions, an urgency to have you closer.

Quickly checking if you were wet enough, he entered you in one practiced thrust, tearing a cry from you. You whined, yours arms pulling him closer as he went in and out of you, roughly breathing with each stroke.

“You idiot girl!” He snapped, entwining your hands with his and pinning them beside your head. Sweat glittered on his hairline, his body rocking hard into you, sweet pleasure running down your spine and settling as heat in your womb. “You fucking dumb bitch!”

It seemed like he had a lot to say but just couldn’t. So, he showed you. He kissed you like he was sucking your very soul from your body, he fucked you as if branding you from within, he held you as if he could merge you into himself. Panting, softly cursing, Steve took you hard and fast, eliciting mewls and cries from you that fell like music on his ears.

“Mine. You are mine!” He said, but more as a statement than anything else. “You don’t leave me ever again. Never.”

The coil in your gut tightened, Steve letting one of your hand go to bring his to your bud and flick it with expertise. His eyes were fixed on yours, holding your very being hostage with his power. In a moan that echoed off the walls, you succumbed to his will, shattering below him and falling limp, floating in a haze of glittering pleasure. He buried his head in your neck, thrusting a few more times before finishing inside you, his cum flooding you within and warming your core.

You panted, sweaty and sated, wearing his marks and covered in him. He rolled over, taking you with him so you rested above, your ear over his chest that thumped with his strong heartbeat. Crazily, you found peace. In the hailstorm of your fucked up life, Steve was the one you held you together. He was the one who pushed you down, and he was the one who caught you as you fell. Your sanity, your insanity.

“If I ever wake up to you gone again, I’ll shackle you to me. You get it?” He murmured, running a hand over your back. You nodded, shifting closer into the warmth of his body. He grunted in approval, pulling a sheet over you before he got up to bring a cloth to clean you.

Kneeling before your legs, wiping gently and softly tracing your folds, Steve murmured soft words of love and praise and apology. He kissed your abused hole, the inside of your bruised thighs, the mass of your belly and the softness of your breast. He kissed your eyes and your nose, reaching your mouth the last.

“What is my truth?” He asked, dressing you into soft pajamas and cradling you into his lap. You relaxed into his touch, head on his chest.

“That you love me, and you’ll never apologize for that.” You answered. In the most bizarre way, you did believe he loved you. And though his love wasn’t perfect or without pain, it was what got you through his darkness that confined you here by force.

“And what is your truth?” He asked, lips on the crown of your head. You closed your eyes, listening to the beating of his heart that matched yours.

“That I am yours.” You said, sleep creeping over you in a beautiful embrace. Shifting you in his arms, Steve laid you down and spooned around you, hands covering your own. You wiggled, pressing your bum into Steve’s groin, and smiling at the catch in his breath.

You floated towards oblivion, a dream already encroaching over your consciousness when you sleepily called out to Steve. He hummed, squeezing your hands gently.

“Werewolves are real.” You muttered and before he could so much a snort out a laugh, you were snoring.

Steve smiled into the darkness, running his thumb over the back of your hand. The panic of your disappearance earlier was replaced by fondness, his heart full of love for you. No, he would never apologize for how he had taken you. Just like the lunar soil sitting on your nightstand was still a part of the moon, no matter how far apart, you were always going to be a part of him. That was your truth, both of yours.

#dark!steve rogers x reader #dark!steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #soft!dark steve #soft!dark steve x reader #Steve Rogers

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queenoftheworldisdead · 4 years ago

Text

Home coming 5

Summery: Slow burn. You are forced to move back to your home town due to the pandemic. When your high school tormentors return to remind you why you never wanted to come back.

Warning: 18+ only, Dark themes, Non-con rape, Choking, Blow-job, Breeding

Notes: Should i stop it here? i feel like this is a good stopping point.

Dark Steve x Black Reader, Cop AU

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

While your uncle slept in his room you finished packing. Stuffing as much as you could in the duffel and forcing it closed was harder this time around depsite the lighter load.

Your cell buzzed a few times, but this time it went ignored. You were hoping to be long gone before consequences would be dealt out.

Outside your door you heard your uncle's bedroom door swing open. Putting the duffel on the floor of your closet you listened to confirm he was awake and moving around.

Shit

You needed the keys to his truck and it would be that much harder to steal again if he was up and about.

Sighing you sit on the small bed and smoothed the lines wrinkling your forehead. Your phone rang again reviving the bundle of nerves in your gut as you sat. Gnawing on your lip you forced yourself to look at it.

The number was once again unfamiliar, but the area code matched the numbers of the area. James. It must be him.

The ringing stopped as you stared at it, followed by a knocking on your front door. No one ever visited him and you sure as shit weren't expecting anyone.

Oh god it's James. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No...

Steve going up against your uncle was one thing. James was another. He would not waste a second lashing out at the elder general.

"Well long time no see" you heard your uncle bellow from outside your door. The panic started to subside. The man's friends were few and far between. You wondered who your uncle became friends with in your absence. Had something changed since you’ve been gone?

When you heard the reply of a woman your brow furred even more. Your uncle called your name, his voice closer than before as you began to rise from your bed.

When your door opened and the cheerful laugh of a familiar voice filled your room. Your heart fell to your stomach. Peggy. Her hair bounced as she laughed at whatever corny joke your uncle gave her, her smile was so bright that her lipstick only helped to highlight it.

"There you are! I've been trying to call you." Peggy sang. The last time you saw her she looked like a model from the fifties. Now her hair a mess and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

"All right I will leave you two to it." Nick dismissed himself, before closing the door.

As the door closed her smile fell and the old friend you had hoped for with it. She stood close to the door while you at your bed facing one another.

"Peg.."

"Don't." She cut you off curtly. Her facade now faded. "Are you fucking him again."

After all these years it was still the same. She looked at you accusatorially and it broke you just like it did when you told her the first time.

"Why did you never listen to me?" You say defeated.

"Steve told me-"

"What about what I told you!"felt your eyes burn as she rolled her eyes at you. You sat there staring at her as a thick silence blanketed the room.

"It doesn't matter anymore." You sniffed before wiping away your tears. "I'm leaving."

"Good make sure you stay gone." She turned to leave, but a loud banging gave her pause.

*Bang Bang

The front door sounded with such force that your uncle's cursing could be heard from your bedroom. When a loud crash followed Peggy backed away from the door while your heart raced as you sat frozen.

"What the hell is that?" Peggy questioned, but you couldn't think, couldn't move especially after you heard 'Get down'. It was muffled, but it was an order familiar to you. Reminding you of the times Steve pranked your house and police that were a little too zealous bursted in.

There was shouting back and forth while Peggy, clutched her purse straps almost tripping over herself when she neared your bed post. The ruckus neared your door as you debated hiding under the bed. Your bed room's door swung open, bouncing off the wall before a bright flash light blinded you. Lifting your arm to shield yourself.

"Down on the ground! On the ground now" a male's voice screamed. Shaking you held your hands in the air as you slowly lowered yourself off the bed. "Face down! Face down!" He barked as you complied with his orders.

"What's goin on? What is this? My husband -" Pegg's voice trailed off as more bodies filled the room.

You didn't need to look. You knew.

"Get your gawd damn hands off me" your uncle shouted from beyond your room as your nose stayed pressed to the floor.

"Thanks Wilson I think I got it from here." The sound of Steve's voice sent ice through your veins. Tears began to bubble as you heard the other officer retreat.

"Man I always wondered what your room looked like."

"Steve what the hell?" Peggy seemed furious, but Steve brushed her off. He had never gone this far. He had always allowed this one bit of peace and now he was taking it away.

Beads of tears ran down your nose as you shifted your eyes and watched Steve's black boots walk. When they reached your closet your stomach tightened. You could hear him as he riffled through your garment.

"Steve!"

"Pegg. Come let me take you-"

"No Bucky! What the hell is happening!"

"No dresses huh" Steve ignored his increasingly frantic wife. He pulled out one of the dresses, tossing it on the floor before you. As he took his time going through your closet you could hear your uncle's voice fade as the other officers forced him out of the house.

"Pegg lets go. You don't want to see what comes next." Bucky urged Peggy to come with him. She fought it, bickering with him, slapping at him, but he overpowered her.

You let out a sob as Bucky dragged Peggy out of the room. She calls Steve's name as he walks her out.

"What's this?"

He kicked the bag you had just packed before you.

"I-i hadn't finished un-p-packing" you stuttered out.

You heard the squeak of his boots as he knelt on his haunches. "We got a call of a woman in distress... Thank goodness I was in the neighborhood." He sounded angry as you sobbed on the floor.

"Don't worry ma'am we've got the situation under control. He is going to be booked down town." He choked down his anger, Steve spoke even, eyes darkened and unemotional. While yours bounced around inside of you.

"Steve please let my uncle go please don't do this" you sniffed looking from the floor. You were still to scared to move from the spot the first officer forced you in.

"Well I can't in good conscious leave you hear alone with him. I tell you what why don't you come with me?"

That’s what this was all about. Steve wanted you to come home with him to pick you were he had left off. There was nothing but a void in his eyes.

"OK OK but first let him go" you turned your head to the side, pleading up at him. “Please.”

Steve kept his eyes on you as he rose to stand. Pulling the receiver to his lips he called out numbers that were a code from something you couldn't decipher.

Steve grabbed your bag and led you. You looked over at the couch where the officers held your uncle still cuffed. "You promised Steve" you whispered at him as he walked through the front door.

In the passenger seat you watched as the other officers left the house. Steve pulled away before you could see them all leave the property completely.

"He will be fine don't worry."

You sat silently, watching the street signs change as he drove. When he didn't make the same turns as earlier, you realized that he wasn't going in the direction of his mothers house.

The little neighborhood with its cookie cutter houses filled your belly with revulsion. Taking your bag from the back seat you followed Steve as you did before, up the path to his front door.

Your eyes searched for a sign of Peggy. How he had convinced her of your new lodgings you weren't sure.

As Steve tossed your bag Peggy emerged and lunged at you. Her eyes filled with tears of her own as she attacked you.

"How could you?! You fucking bitch!" slapping you in the face as you blocked her blows.

Steve sighed hand on hip. "Why are you here?" She screamed and pulled off shouting at you, out of breath.

"Why are you here?" Steve interjected. Quickly Peggy spun to face him. She ran to him gripping the front of his shirt, nuzzling into his shirt.

"Steve I love you. Don't do this." She sobbed into his chest.

"I told Buck to take you to your mothers."

"I don't understand. Why? why are you doing this?"

"I'm calling your mother" Steve pulled out his phone and proceeded to dial. You stood back against the door as you watched the scene unfold.

"What did she tell you hmm?" She sounded desperate and frantic as he held the phone to his ear. "Did she tell you she was pregnant again?"

The air felt as if it had been sucked out of the room. She was the only one you told before you left. The reason you left with such urgency. Steve dropped the phone to his side, letting her words sink in.

"You were pregnant?" He looked at you.

Peggy was saying something, but it was so hard to hear as fear swallowed you. He looked at you with a range of emotions shifting all over his face at once. Disbelief, anger, denial then betrayal.

"And you knew?" He looked in-between you.

"Honey she lied and I didn't believe her" she went to embrace him again "I knew you wouldn't do that to me" You felt frozen. Your body wanted to escape, but your legs refused to move.

When Peggy grasped the front of his uniform Steve pushed her so hard that she fell to the ground. You watched as she screeched and nursed her bruised side.

Steve stood before you completely silent. His eyes burning with an intensity that only helped to keep you locked in place.

You flailed in his arms as he hauled you up the stairs. "Please, please, I'm sorry" you were desperate as your nails snagged on the odd picture frame in an effort to escape Steve's grasp. Some tumbled down as he held you up. You were too high to grab the railing, but that didn't stop you from trying to grab at it.

Peggy called to Steve from the bottom step, crying for him as you struggled. "Please Peggy, Peggy help me!"

Bypassing the baby room and into the master bedroom he marched. Once inside he tossed you down. The floor kissed your back unlovingly. You hissed as your back throbbed.

Steve paced in front of the shut door. Peggy banged at the door, Steve looked at it and huffed. You winced moving backwards on your palms until you hit the bed frame.

"Don't move" he didn't look at you. Only opening the door and leaving. You saw a glimpse of Peggy before he slammed it shut.

Peggy's voice faded and you worried for her. Looking around the room you debated on what to do, there was a window. But would you survive the fall?

it wasn’t long before the door opened with Steve raking his fingers through his hair and shutting it once more.

"You better get comfy Roast, because you aren't leaving this room. And whatever thoughts running around in your head about proving me wrong on that fact....Don't."

Digging in his pocket he pulled out a box and tossed it at your feet. He stared at you and back at the box, wordlessly giving you the command to take it.

Scared you reached for it. The velvety container shook in your hand as you opened it. "You belong to me." It was a ring, a diamond wedding ring. Look at him in disbelief you said nothing.

"Put it on" he commanded. Taking it out you extended your ring finger and slid it on. It wouldn't go past your knuckle. "It won't fit." You mumbled with it half way on. Swiftly he marched over and snatched up your hand. Steve forced the ring on as you cried. You felt the circulation cut off immediately. Your finger swelled at the tight fit of the ring before he tossed your hand down.

"On your knees."

Your finger pulsed as you moved to rise on your knees. He was in charge and you weren't going to infuriate him any more than you already had.

"Tongue out" his voice went deeper. You wanted to beg him to not do this. To please stop, but you knew him well enough to not waist your breath.

You watched as he unzipped before your awaiting mouth. Shutting your eyes tight, more tears fell as your jaws ached.

Steve let out a long breath when the tip of his cock fell upon your tongue. You could already taste the saltiness of the pre-cum as you fought off the cringe.

"Look at me." Steve cooed as he tapped the head of his cock on your tongue. His expression was too blurred, your eyes too glassed with water to see anything.

"Take me all in" he spoke with a soft growl. Timidly you enclosed your mouth on his length, but you couldn’t find the nerve to move. Hiccuping around him when he placed a hand on the back of your head. Steve nudged you forward slowly. Easing you forward to take him deeper, motioning your head so that you slowly took him in and out.

You knew he was holding himself back from quickening your pace. He hadn't had you suck his cock in a long time, so he was going to stretch this out as long as possible.

He slid his length deep down your throat, holding you there. "We were going to be a family."

You had to breathe and he knew it. You patted him, signaling him that you needed air, but that just had him hold harder. Pushing against his thighs you try to free yourself, panicking due to the depleting air in your lungs.

"You took that from me" Steve picked up speed, fucking your face mercilessly. His massive cock not allowing for much air to pass through. “Our baby, you took that from me.”

When he pulled out you gasped and coughed, holding your throat as you massaged your neck.

"Look at me" he glared down at you. Through your tears you strained your neck to stare at him. Pressing his tip to your mouth again you started sucking on your own.

Drool dripped down your chin while the ghastly gags escaped each time his cock hit that dangly thing in the back of your throat. You strained to hold his gaze as he watched you darkly. When his eyes started to roll back you knew he was close.

Your sobs vibrated on his cock the sensation making him moan with delight. Steve groaned your name to the melody of your sloppy mess.

"I’m gonna nut in your mouth and your gonna hold it there while I fuck you in the cunt."

Steve's breathing quickly became heavy. With one last twitch of his cock he exploded in your mouth. You wanted to vomit and spit out his seed as it filled your mouth, but his warning glare reminded you that you knew better.

The mattress smelled like Peg. Everything reminded you of her as you laid on your back. You tried to think where she could be. Did she go to her mother's? You thought as the head of his cock probed your folds.

You felt his cum dry around your mouth as you held it open, embarrassed you look away and he allowed it.

Steve hissed as the tip of his head got slicker and slicker while it roamed you. In that moment you hated yourself. He knew how to awaken the lust filled shame inside you. Building a fire in your corn that you wished you could stomp out.

"AH so fucking tight."

Steve sunk in deep, the pain jolting you, your back arching as he held your hips. He chuckled when your thighs squeezed his sides as your cunt tightened around him.

"Fuck I missed you" he moved slowly, but it was still too much. On your elbows you try and crawl away, but he only let you get so far before he slammed you back to him.

Sending another jolt through your body causing you to choke on his salty seed.

"Didn't.I.Say.Hold.It.In" he hammered each point painfully before wrapping a hand around your throat. You apologized as he fucked you hard into the mattress. A quake started to erupt from your mound and you couldn't bite it back.

“Fuck!” you cried as you came around him. Steve praised your traitors cunt. It squeezed him tightly, eager to hug him.

"Your going to be filled to the brim with me, morning, noon and night. You won't know what its like not to have me leaking from you." You felt his weight on your neck as his hips rammed into yours.

"Do you understand?" Steve barked at you.

Your vision spotted as you shook your head feverishly. Steve fell on top of you, his weight crushing you as he came.

"Tell me you love me... fucking say it." He panted into your ear as your thighs ached to stay open.

"I love you." You croaked.

"You are my first, last and now only" he was promising himself to you, but you didn't want it.

#dark cop au #dark marvel au #dark steve x black reader #dark steve x black!reader #dark steve rogers x black!reader #Dark steve x reader #dark!steve x reader #Dark!Steve #dark!steve x black reader #Dark!steve x black!reader

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kurokoros · 2 years ago

Text

into open flames | (s.h.)

Rated: M (future smut, descriptions of blood/injury)

Words: 15.2K

Pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

You and Steve are almost something. Almost lovers. And it feels almost like hell; almost romantic.

OR: A blackout snowstorm and a monster force you and Steve to take shelter in Hopper’s old cabin. From there, everything starts slotting into place.

AN: oops! this took longer to write than expected and now it’s being posted in three parts because I didn’t have it in me to try and write another 10K+ before posting. the third part will include smut!

Warnings: horror elements (the monster is modeled after the official illustration of the “bagman” from dnd). descriptions of blood and gore. non-sexual nudity. reader implied to be shorter than steve. reader is a hopper but there’s no mention of blood relation. cop!steve but it’s for monster hunting reasons. S3 and S4 never happened in this universe alteration, but upside down shenanigans have still been happening post-S2

Chapters: Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Steve’s head is throbbing.

That’s the first thing he registers. Consciousness creeps over him slowly. Languid. The ringing in his ears drags him back. It’s dark and his head feels swollen and ready to pop under the pressure thrumming through his skull. Stuffed with cotton. Or shoved too deep underwater. Not a hangover, he knows that much. He’s had enough to know the difference. Wherever he is, it’s cold and wet. The exposed parts of his skin feel damp under burning numbness. And he hurts. The pressure beneath his skull. The right side of his chest and arm burn. His hands sting.

Beneath the ringing in his ears there’s something else, something muffled. Icey fingers touch his cheek.

Slowly, his head lolls to the side. His eyes are closed, he realizes belatedly. It takes more effort than it should to get them to open, his eyelids sticky like glue. When they do open, he can’t see anything. For a horrifying second, he thinks he’s been struck blind. Then, his vision starts to readjust. Acclimating to the darkness.

Everything is a hazy shade of blue.

For a second, he’s back in high school. Sprawled across the Byers’ couch after getting the shit beaten out of him by Billy Hargrove. Bloody. Mottled black and blue bruises spattered across his face and chest like a sick watercolor painting, the colors all blending together. It hurt to move. Hurt to breathe. Something in his chest rattled whenever he did. His ears wouldn’t stop ringing. The queasy feeling in his stomach only got worse as shapes and shadows moved around the room, voices shouting over each other until the bile surged up his throat and he vomited all over the Byers’ floor.

A concussion.

There’s a shadow leaning over him, and he thinks of you, stroking back his hair and whispering to him that night, telling him everything would be okay. That he was okay. Now, he can’t make out the words.

A sluggish blink and suddenly everything looks sharper.

The sky is black. So black, he can’t see the stars behind the clouds rolling overhead. Only a sliver of the moon peeks through, waning, but enough to dimly light the space where he’s lying. Steve’s head lolls sideways. His cheek presses against ice. Snow. There’s snow surrounding him. Turned blue in the shadow of a distant light. And trees. The shape of them is silhouetted and dark. Spindly oak trees. Branches bare and snapped off in some places. Blood in the snow. Smeared across one of the trees in a color that’s almost black. Streaked across the sleeve of a jacket he distantly realizes is his.

There’s a gun in his hand.

The shadow leans over him again.

It takes another second for the pieces to snap back into place.

His fingers clench. He lunges. Pain ripples through his shoulder as he wrenches around in the snow, gun in his hand, aimed in a brutal swing towards the figure hovering over his chest. Milky eyes. No face. Too long limbs. Too tight skin. Claws. Claws. Claws.

Steve doesn’t brain the creature like he hopes to. His arm is forced back into the snow by a solid grip on his wrist. The push and pull tears at the lacerations on his right arm. A pained hiss slips from between his teeth; the gun slips from between his numb fingers. Hands hold him down. Hot breath washes over his face and he thinks of that trilling, gurgling growl he hears in his nightmares. Panic, white-hot and sharp, digs into the spaces between his ribs and rips at his insides.

Before he can swing again, the pressure on his arm releases. Hands grab his face and wrench his head to the side.

“Shh,” a familiar voice whispers. “Shh, Steve, it’s me. It’s me. You’re okay. You’re okay.” The words come out in a rush, strung together frantically. It sounds like white noise until the ringing fades.

The shadow over him takes physical form. Wild eyes. Frazzled hair. A pretty face that haunts his waking hours. Just as pretty as he last saw this morning.

Your name tumbles from his lips, slurred around a numb tongue and a mouthful of blood.

Your hands are shaking where they’re pressed to his cheeks. Cold. Afraid. Both. When clarity sinks into his hazel eyes, you smile, but it’s strained. Your bottom lip wobbles. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy. Your face is wet. “It’s me,” you tell him again. “It’s just me.” One of your knees nudges against the side of his chest and he groans as it sends pain shooting along his ribs. “I’m sorry. Please, you have to—you have to stay quiet. Okay? You’re okay.”

One of your hands slides from his cheek down to his chest, slipping under his open jacket to rest over his rapidly beating heart. Your palm rubs against the fabric of his uniform shirt, your thumb sweeping back and forth idly until his pulse starts to slow.

You’re alive. It slams into his chest with the gentle touch of your hand, your open palm on his heart. Fuck, you’re alive. A strange, shuddering breath rattles in his chest and claws out of his mouth around the sudden tightness in his throat. The lingering panic from when he couldn’t find you seeps from his muscles and leaves him lying there limply underneath you as one of your hands sweeps the damp hair away from his forehead. His eyes flutter shut. Just for a moment. Until he remembers where he is. Remembers the thing that attacked him. A monster.

A tree branch snaps. Your red and swollen eyes wrench away from his to scan the shadowy spaces between the spindly trees. Nothing calls out to you or Steve from the darkness.

“What happened?” Steve asks around a cottony mouth. He shifts his weight until he can sit up on his elbows, hissing as his shoulder burns in protest. The hand on his chest tries to ease him back down. He doesn’t let you. With his good arm, he grasps just above your elbow, needing to feel you under his hands. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” you cut him off. Cold fingers stroke down his cheek to cup his jaw and force him to meet your eyes. “I’m fine. I don’t—I don’t know what happened. I was coming back from the cabin and it was just there. I thought—I heard someone. I thought it was a kid or something, but…” Briefly, you trail off, gaze far away before you squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head. “And I ran. It followed me, and I couldn’t—I tried to go back to the road. I left the radio in the car. I thought if I could get there and call you, maybe…”

There’s a tightness in his chest that won’t loosen. “It didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” you’re quick to reassure him, “no, Steve, I’m fine. Look at me. I’m okay.” His hand strokes down your arm from elbow to wrist, grounding you both as he does what you say and looks at you. His eyes dart around wildly, unfocused, but desperate to make sure you’re really okay.

“There was a space down by the creek,” you tell him as he looks you over carefully. His good hand drops down to your waist, automatically burrowing under your jacket to hold you closer. “It must have been somewhere a deer was nesting. I hid there for a while. It couldn’t find me.” You wet you lips, rushing through your explanation without allowing him time to question any of it. “I came out when I heard the gunshot.”

Steve squeezes your side gently, fingers digging into your sweater enough for you to feel the heat of his hand. “Jesus Christ.” He breathes through his nose, closing his eyes tightly as his head throbs. “Tommy Mulligan thought he saw a wild man in the woods last night,” he says when you brush his hair away from his face again. “And I—I thought I heard you screaming last night.”

It’s a quiet admission, one he doesn’t mean to make. He hates telling you about his nightmares. The panic attacks. The headaches that won’t go away. They make you worry. The concern that pinches the space between your brows makes guilt swirl in his stomach. Vulnerability still doesn’t come easy to him, even with you.

Steve swallows his pride. “I thought it…” he trails off, but you already know. He thought it was a nightmare. One where he saw you disappear in front of him while he couldn’t do shit to protect you. When he has night terrors like that, he never comes out of them quickly. They linger. Itch at his skin until the soft murmur of your voice and gentle hands manage to soothe the raw nerves once more, like a balm. “But, Will heard it, too. I didn’t. I didn’t want to—”

Scare you. Watch that faraway look cloud over your eyes as you were sucked back into something horrible, lost in your own head. Didn’t want to believe it, because that would make it real, and fuck Steve’s tired of all of this. He’s so damn tired of watching everything fall apart—watching you fall apart.

You chew your bottom lip. “The gates?”

Steve closes his eyes. “Closed,” he says. “They’re still closed. Owens said they haven’t been active in months.” Which means a new gate. Or maybe this thing has been living in Hawkins for years without any of them noticing. Hiding. Watching.

The thought makes him sick.

You’re still chewing on your bottom lip when he looks at you again. Like he feared, that faraway look is back in your eyes, panic at the edges of your pupils, like you’re remembering something awful. “It can throw its voice,” you blurt before Steve can ask you what’s wrong.

He blinks. A wrinkle forms between his eyebrows. “What?”

His voice rouses you from the confines of your own head. Your eyes snap up to meet his. “You know in some cartoons? Like, like old episodes of Scooby Doo? You remember—you remember when we used to watch them?” you ask, the beginning of a ramble on the tip of your tongue. “Some characters could throw their voices. Or, or ventriloquists, I guess.” Steve isn’t following, you can tell by the confused tilt of his head, and you force yourself to take a breath and gather yourself. When you speak again, you sound more sure. “It can make it sound like it’s somewhere it isn’t,” you explain, as simple as you can. “When I was… hiding, it sounded like it was everywhere at the same time. It would be in front of me, then behind me the next second. Or, or close and then further away. Like it was trying to make me think it was somewhere it wasn’t. Or trying to disorient me.”

It felt like it was screwing with you. Taunting you for reasons you couldn’t understand. It didn’t feel like you were being hunted, not in the same way as the Demogorgon made you feel, or that pack of monstrous, canine-like creatures. Stalked, but not hunted.

“Son of a bitch,” Steve says under his breath. “That’s how it got me. Thought there was a second one coming from the side.” With your help, he sits up fully, grabbing his gun from where it sunk into the snow and pulling his wounded arm close to his chest.

The blood oozing from his open wounds makes your stomach churn. The flashlight, half-buried beneath mounting flakes illuminates the area just enough for you to see the gore staining the fresh snow.

“It’s smart,” you say, forcing your eyes away from the bloodstains. “It got me to leave the path because I thought I heard someone crying. Like a little kid. And all I could think was—”

“Will,” he finishes for you.

“Yeah,” you agree, voice small. “Like it, like it knew that I’d stop because of that. And it, it could have just attacked me. It probably could have killed me before I even knew it was there. I didn’t have anything to protect me. But it didn’t. It was trying to lure me somewhere and ambush me, or something. I don’t—” Don’t know. Don’t want to know. Don’t understand.

He sighs. “The Mulligans said it ran away when they fired a warning shot.”

“Right.” You wet your lips. “And you must have scared it, too. It knocked you out. It could have killed you while you were unconscious if it wanted food, or just wanted to hunt. So, why didn’t it?”

He doesn’t have an answer for you, and the silence blanketing the woods is unnerving. Wind whistles through the trees, growing shrill, and you shiver as the cold air wraps around you, blowing your hair into your face.

“We can’t stay here,” you tell Steve, lowering your voice and leaning closer to him, for comfort or warmth, he isn’t sure. “I don’t know how well it can hear, and we can’t stay out here all night. The snow is already getting worse.”

A blizzard is what your dad called it. Unlike any storm Hawkins has seen in years. The kind you can’t survive outdoors. Enough snow that he and Joyce couldn’t risk driving home. Enough to bury you and Steve in the woods until spring thaws your frostbitten skin, or the animals find you.

He makes a face like he knows what you’re thinking. “You know how to get to the road from here?”

You nod. “But it’s not close. A mile walk. Maybe more than that.” You try to do the calculations in your head, but between your cold fingers and the exhaustion pulling at your weary muscles, you can’t figure out exactly where you are. “I don’t… I don’t know how far out we are right now. The cabin’s closer. And you… Steve, you’re hurt,” you tell him, finally acknowledging the gore splattered across the snow, his sleeve, the trees. Thick and red and still leaking down from a gruesome wound on his arm.

“We can’t call for help from the cabin,” he tries to argue.

“We can’t call from the car, either,” you snap. “We’d have to go back to the trailer.”

He groans. “And if it follows us, we’d lead it right to the kids. Fuck.”

There’s a part of him that wants to risk going to the car and getting the hell out of here, but it’s gone before he can dwell on it. He won’t risk the kids’ safety. And you’re cold. And his shoulder is still bleeding sluggishly.

You look at him like you’d follow him anywhere, and he won’t risk you.

“Fuck,” he says again.

It’s a long hike to the cabin. Normally a twenty-minute walk, the growing storm makes it hard to see. The snow is thick. Neither of you can see more than two dozen feet ahead, and with the snow up to your knees in places, it isn’t easy to cut between the trees.

Blood drips down Steve’s sleeve onto the snow, leaving a faint trail behind you that you pray is lost under the snow and wind. He’s leaning against you heavily, one of his arms wrapped around your shoulders and keeping you pressed up against his side. The gun in his hand is cocked and ready, the safety clicked off. It isn’t safe, and it goes against everything he’s been taught, but if that thing comes back, he’s not letting it touch you.

The forest is quiet until suddenly it isn’t.

Far off to the North, a creature bays. Howling and screeching over the wind, he can’t make out the words it says, but you shrink into his side. Both of your steps come to a halt.

Another call comes from the direction you came from, echoing the first.

Like you said, the calls seem to circle the two of you, and Steve swears under his breath, unable to pinpoint where they’re coming from. His grip around you tightens, and he drags you forward on long legs that have you struggling to keep up. The two of you stumble through the snow, steps hurried even as the snow grabs hold of your legs and sucks you in, unwilling to let go.

You don’t make it more than a dozen feet before a sound like lightning rips through the woods, a loud crack that makes his heart jump into his throat. A tree branch snapping in two.

Steve pulls you tight to his chest and drags you to the nearest tree, your back flush to his front. Bark from the tree behind him scrapes against his shoulders through his jacket as he presses closer to the large oak tree, one with a trunk large enough to span the width of his shoulders. The gun is heavy in his right hand, his finger already hovering over the trigger as another branch snaps in the distance. Both of your hands clutch at the arm braced over your collarbone, your fingers digging into his forearm as snow crunches somewhere behind you, barely audible beneath the wind. He squeezes your shoulder, grounding you both as the footsteps grow closer.

A shadow moves across the snow, barely visible in the faint moonlight streaking between the trees.

There are sixteen bullets left in the magazine. This morning, when he counted them, there were seventeen. It only took a single shot to scare the damn thing off before. That might not be enough this time. Fuck, they should have gone for the car. At least you would have gotten a head start. A way out. Steve, he can hold it back for a while, maybe even kill it, if he gets lucky. But you? You’re unarmed. And if this thing follows you straight to the cabin, then what? You wait there, stranded? Trapped inside until it gets bored, or it gives up? Or the door gives in?, a nasty part of his brain offers.

“Hello?”

The taste of iron coats his tongue with every shuddering breath he takes, his cheek split open where he bit down when the monster knocked him to the ground. The cold air stings his lungs. Blood roars in his ears, so loud he thinks it’s that thing at first, growling and clicking like other monsters from the other side of reality. Red drips down his arm, blood soaking his mangled sleeve, and Steve wonders if the creature stalking them can smell it. If it knows exactly where they are and it’s just toying with them.

“Steve?”

His grip on the gun falters.

It’s using your voice again. The creature cries out his name, a tremor to its tone, like it’s going to cry. He’s heard that same tone in your own voice: in his nightmares and in his memory.

You shake in his arms, a testament to just how fucking petrified you are after what you’ve been through today. Steve’s seen you stare down monsters before with no regard for your own life. He’s never seen you timid like this, and it only makes him angrier.

Maybe he can surprise it. It’s behind him. Somewhere to the right. If he’s fast enough, he can get a handful of shots off before it even knows you and Steve are there. He’d have to get lucky with the angle, though. And he might not be able to see it through the snow.

He’s about to slip out from behind you when you let go of his arm and place your hand over his on the gun, stilling him before he can raise it. You don’t dare say a word, even as the creature wanders through the trees, calling out in a voice it stole from you.

You hold him there, keeping the gun pointed at the ground and him pressed against your back as the monster’s cries fade into the distance.

Neither of you move for a while.

By the time the cabin comes into view, there are black spots in Steve’s vision.

His grip hasn’t loosened on the gun since that thing almost caught them. And he hasn’t let go of you, either. Left arm looped around your shoulder. Your right slung around his waist, letting him lean some of his weight onto you. His legs are fine, but he still feels sluggish. Waves of dizziness wash over him at random moments, infrequent, but still somewhat alarming. At first, you’d let him be, trusting him to keep himself upright, but after the third time he started to sway you slipped your arm around him and haven’t let go since.

Pressed against him like this, Steve can feel every shiver that wracks your body. They’ve been getting worse in the time the two of you have been walking. The clothes you wore today are already soaked through and stiff with frost and a thin sheen of ice. There’s ice in your hair, too, where the fresh torrent of snow is starting to layer and melt. It’s starting to make him nervous, if he’s being honest. With the temperature dropping and the storm getting worse, he’s worried about hypothermia setting in.

You seem to be doing all right, for now, but he needs to warm you up.

The porch stairs are climbed in a pair of unsteady steps. Steve leans more of his weight onto you than he’d like, an old injury to his knee starting to ache with the cold, but you only squeeze your arm around him tighter.

With your free hand, you fumble with the door. It takes a few tries for you to get a grasp on the knob and jiggle it open, your hands have started shaking so badly. As quick as you get it open, your hand retreats back into your sleeve, a vain attempt to shield your fingers from the cold.

He kicks the door open with his foot. It doesn’t open more than a crack. It’s dark inside. The lights are off, and he can’t remember if you mentioned there being any power or not. Regardless, it’s safe. Safer than being outside, anyway.

Gently, he shifts his arm from around your shoulders, pressing his hand to your lower back and nudging you forward. You glance up at him, searching his face, and you must find whatever you’re looking for, because you slip through the crack in the door without a word.

Steve only places his handgun back into its holster after you disappear into the darkened room.

Before he follows you, Steve turns half-way around, glancing across the short yard towards the edge of the tree line from where you came. For a moment, he waits, listening for cries or calls of his name coming from the woods. Nothing. It’s silent. The snow is too thick to see more than a dozen feet away.

There’s an itch under his skin. A crawling feeling, like he’s being watched. If the monster is out there, stalking them, it keeps its distance for now. He can only hope that lasts.

“Steve?”

He flinches. He only turns when he realizes the call came from behind him. You’re standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around yourself as you wait for him to follow you inside. You look small, shivering there in one of his old jackets, with your hands tucked into the sleeves and your hair a mess from the wind and snow.

Casting one last look over his shoulder, Steve follows you inside. He kicks the door shut again, pressing his back against the wood to keep it closed. The two of you are plunged into darkness. Neither of you move for a moment, listening to the sound of each other’s breathing. You’re not even two feet from him, but you’re only a silhouette in the shadows. Intangible. Like he could reach to touch you, but pass right through. Close enough for him to smell the last lingering wisps of your perfume, fruity or floral, he can’t quite tell. But it’s you. It’s home.

Eventually, he forces himself to turn the deadbolt on the door. Tries not to think about how easy it would be to break it down anyway.

“Where’s your lighter?” you ask as Steve reaches for the flashlight on his belt. The beam is weak, and it flickers, but he keeps it aimed at the floor anyway.

The question makes his brows furrow, a frown tugging at his mouth. “What?”

You sigh, a note of frustration creeping in, perhaps unfairly. “Your lighter,” you repeat, a little louder, taking a half-step closer to him. “The power’s out. I—I don’t think anything really works here anymore. There’s no heat or water, so we need to, we need to light the fireplace or we’re just going to end up freezing in here.” You stumble over the explanation, still trembling even without the wind beating down on you.

The slight slur to your words makes his frown deepen.

You mistake his silence for concern over something else. “And don’t bullshit me. I know you still smoke sometimes when you’re stressed. I can smell it on you when you come to bed after.” You sniff, shuffling from one foot to the other, wincing at the pins and needles stabbing at your feet, the numbness starting to catch up to you now that you’re inside and have a moment to breathe. “So, where’s your lighter?”

“Left pocket,” he admits, a little ashamed that you know he still keeps it on him. He’s been trying to stop, for you. Thought he did, for a while, until all of this shit started up again last summer.

There’s no disappointment in your tone though, only impatience. “Jacket?”

“Yeah.”

Your hand peeks from your sleeve and slips into his pocket without a word. The lighter is buried deep, and your fingers are numb, and for several frustrating seconds you can’t find it until Steve lifts his arm and places his hand on your side, holding you together with a single touch. It takes another second for your hands to stop shaking long enough for you to wrap your fingers around the piece of metal. Steve’s thumb moves over your jacket in slow strokes until you step back again, the lighter clenched in your fist.

You’re slower to move entirely out of his space.

Though you were here only hours ago, the layout of the room is unfamiliar. Dark, save for the weak flicker of the flashlight in Steve’s hand, there are strange shadows cast along the walls. Furniture is distorted. Elongated. Twisted into hunched figures with gangly limbs and gnarled claws. At once, you feel like a child again. Scared of the dark and what lurks there.

Except, you already know the answer to that. And the real monsters, not the ones that used to hide under the bed, are more horrific than anything you could have imagined.

You take a few shuffling steps into the living room, dragging your feet to feel for the furniture. The fireplace is on the far wall. You can’t remember what lies between.

As you cross the room, Steve turns around and starts sliding the locks into place. Three, besides the deadbolt. Each snap into place with a loud click that makes your breath catch and your heart seize.

Dim light illuminates the room. The coffee table is inches from your shin.

“Hey?” Steve calls across the room. You can’t see him behind the flashlight beam. He lowers the light, crossing the distance to you in a few long strides. He wets his lips before dipping his chin to speak softly into your ear. “Stay here, okay?” he asks, reaching out to take your elbow into his hand, squeezing gently. “I’m going to go check the backdoor. Make sure everything’s locked up tight.”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, worrying it. “We need to look at your arm,” you remind him, glancing down at the mess of dark blood and torn skin hidden beneath his ripped clothes. The sight makes your eyes itchy and wet, and you have to blink back the tears threatening to spill over.

“After,” Steve says, squeezing your arm. “It won’t take long.” He keeps a firm grip on your elbow until you nod, and even then, he’s reluctant to leave you standing here alone. His palm slips an inch down your arm, his grip loosening as he starts to pull away, but then he stops. Before you can ask what’s wrong, he presses his lips to your temple, lingering with his eyes squeezed shut until he hears you take a slow, shallow breath and your shoulders relax. “I’ll be right back.”

Both of you feel colder after he takes a step back.

He leaves the flashlight on the coffee table. The weak beam flickers in and out. By now, the battery is nearly drained, and the only replacements are crammed into the glovebox of Hopper’s truck. Still, it’s just enough to keep you from being plunged into the darkness completely. A welcome respite until the fire is lit.

His chest tightens when he crosses the room. The flashlight is just enough to let him see your figure against the shadows on the walls. It’s not until he rounds a wall that you’re out of sight, leaving an open pit in his stomach. Beneath the creaking floorboards, the cabin is too quiet. Too still. It’s unnerving. He moves quickly through the small space, uncaring of the way he slams his knees and shins into furniture in the dark. The noise helps. In the living room, it reminds you that he’s still here. Out of sight, but here. For Steve, the bang of his knees colliding with a half-collapsed table drowns out the faint ringing in his ears.

In the darkness, his hands fumble for the door. Fingers crawl blindly across the wall, catching on slivers and cracks in the wood until he finds the weathered door. It takes a moment of groping to find the knob and twist. The door doesn’t budge. Steve throws his weight against it, his good shoulder banging against the solid wood. It stays firmly shut. Again, his hand wanders over the wall near the door, fingers running over one, two, three more locks running along the height of the doorway. He loops his fingers around each chain one by one, yanking on them roughly to be sure the metal won’t give.

They don’t, and he only hopes that fucking thing in the woods isn’t smart enough to open them from outside.

It takes more stumbling through the dark and stubbing his fingers against walls and cabinets to find the windows. Like the door, they’re all locked tightly. Curtains are pulled shut over most of them, keeping anyone from looking outside—or looking in. He doesn’t know if that thing can see. Its eyes were pale, milky white, like his grandfather’s were after the cataracts got so bad he couldn’t see anything anymore. He doesn’t know if it, like the Demogorgon, doesn’t need to see. If it can track them down in other ways. Hearing. It can mimic voices, so it has to hear well enough.

Or smell, he thinks with a grimace, shoulder aching and blood dripping down his arm.

Stomach churning, he leaves the curtains closed. He leaves the backroom quickly, checking the bedrooms and closing the curtains there as well, casting glances at you as he moves from room to room. You stay crouched by the unlit fireplace, barely moving.

When Steve steps back into the living room to close the curtains there, he realizes you’re trembling. Your hands, mostly, the tremors vibrating along your arms until your entire body is quivering.

“Come on,” you murmur around teeth that are starting to chatter, thumb scraping against the flint. The lighter clicks, sparking, but the flame doesn’t catch. The next flick of your thumb ends the same. Your hands are too shaky. Too numb. “Come on. Fuck. Come on. Please.” There’s a sharp pressure behind your eyes and in your throat, frustration choking you until you can’t breathe right. You ignore the stinging in your eyes, continuing to drag your finger against the spark wheel desperately.

Steve’s footsteps are loud, the wood floors still creaking underfoot, but you barely notice him there until he lowers himself to one knee beside you. His right hand sweeps up your back, smoothing over your damp jacket. You gasp, stiffening under his touch until his knee knocks against yours, familiar and firm. He leaves his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the heat from his palm sinking into you through the layers of your clothes. The warmth almost makes you whimper.

“Hey,” he starts, voice low against your ear. The hand that isn’t anchored to your back reaches towards the lighter you’re still trying to start. “Let me—”

“I’ve got it.” It comes out in a rush, barely audible. Your hands are shaking worse, and you don’t spare him a look, forcing yourself to concentrate.

He sighs, rubbing your back gently. “Seriously, come on. Just let me—”

“I’ve got it, Steve,” you snap at him, pinning him with a harsh look before your stare returns to the unlit logs. Expression almost manic, there’s nothing you can do to hide the raw panic in your gaze. All of your bravado seems to have melted away in the long minutes he left you alone, rationality giving way to fear. You’ve been doing so, so well holding yourself together so far, but the cracks in your façade are starting to spread. One more chip in the glass and you might just splinter apart. Shatter.

And it makes his heart sink into the pit of his stomach to think about. Because you were alone. For hours, you were alone in the woods. And you were scared. Exhaustion is clear in the way you’re curled into yourself, shivering and weary. Seeing you like this scares him. You’ve always been a rock. Always kept him grounded when he needed it. And he would do anything to make you feel safe. Anything. He’d burn this world to the ground if that’s what it took.

“Hey,” he says softly, practically cooing as he reaches out and tilts your chin towards him, coaxing you to look at him again. Your eyes slide right past his face, dropping lower to the blood soaked into his sleeve. The gray fabric is stained from shoulder to elbow, darker around the edges and in tatters where sharp claws sliced through. He presses his fingers into your jaw a little harder, squeezing gently until you finally meet his eyes. “I’m okay. You’re okay. All right?” He chews the inside of his cheek, thumb idly sweeping across your jaw. “I’m not… I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. Okay? We just have to get the fire started and wait it out, remember? We just need to wait it out.”

Your fingers are wrapped around his lighter so tightly that the metal is digging into your palm, leaving harsh lines. It takes several long seconds for his words to sink in, but the soothing motion of his thumb across your jaw makes the tension in your frame release. Eventually, you nod, your eyes squeezing shut briefly.

His fingers leave your chin. Slowly, he lowers his hand to hover over yours, his fingertips grazing your knuckles. “Can I?” he asks, gesturing to the lighter still clenched in your fist.

You nod again. “Yeah,” you say, voice cracking at the end. You wet your lips and try again. “Yes. Sorry.”

Steve hushes you as you start to murmur apologies under your breath. You’re still trembling, and he slips his palm around your wrist, thumb rubbing circles over the thin skin covering your rapid pulse. The two of you sit like that for a minute, until your iron grip starts to loosen and you fall quiet again. Slowly, his big hand slides down, engulfing yours as he pries your fingers away from the metal, careful with your stiff digits.

“Fuck, honey,” he says as your grip slackens enough for the lighter to slip to the floor with a clatter. Neither of you move to pick it up and light the fire. Instead, Steve wraps his hand around yours, his thumb rubbing over the bumps of your knuckles. Lips downturned, his brows knit together. “Your hands are freezing.”

The heat that envelops your fingers makes you shudder. Too hot. Too much. Too fast. A sound akin to a whimper slips out on your exhale, shaky and painfully soft.

“Does that hurt?” He loosens his grip slightly, thumb still working circles into your knuckles. Alarm buzzes through him at the iciness where your skin meets his. The drastic difference opens a pit in his stomach. Your hands have always been colder than his, but never like this. This isn’t your chilly toes bumping playfully against his legs at night to startle him into a yelp. This cold is bone deep, the kind that burns when they start to thaw, stiff and painful to the touch.

You grimace as he starts to uncurl your fingers more. There’s a sob crawling up the back of your throat at the sharp, stabbing pain in your hands, but you swallow it down before it can slip from between your teeth. “A little,” you admit, downplaying as much as he’ll let you get away with. Unable to stop yourself, your gaze slips down to the blood and torn fabric and torn skin—

“I left my gloves on the counter,” you tell him sheepishly, offering a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. Tone more bitter than you mean it to be, you add, “Guess I should have been more careful, huh?”

Steve doesn’t say anything, just lifts your hand to his mouth and presses his lips to your knuckles, trying to soothe the ache spreading through your fingers as warmth slowly seeps back into them. For a while, he leaves his lips there, parted slightly as he breathes through his mouth. His thumb never stops moving, and the friction helps, even as the burning grows intense. Pins and needles stab at your flesh, and you bite your bottom lip to distract from the sharp aches.

Eventually, his grip loosens. Reluctantly, he pulls your hand from his lips. “Better?” he asks, lowering your linked hands to your thigh before slipping his fingers out from between yours. His grip shifts to your leg, squeezing gently. The fabric is stiff and cold under his palm, and he flinches away instinctively.

“I fell,” you admit when his eyes jump back to yours in horror, though it takes longer than it should for you to realize why he’s so concerned. “I thought the creek was frozen over, but the ice wasn’t thick enough.”

For a moment, he’s quiet. Then, he manages to choke out a soft, “When?” Careful to keep his tone even.

“I don’t—a couple hours, maybe?” Your brows pinch together in confusion. “I’m not sure. A while ago, I guess. I can’t really feel it, so I just—I… forgot.”

Forgot. You forgot that you fell into water. Forgot that you’ve been wearing freezing clothes for hours.

Hypothermic, he realizes with a jolt. You’re hypothermic. It takes a second for his thoughts to unscramble, for him to swallow back the initial surge of panic that rises up in his chest at the new information. You seemed so level-headed before that he didn’t even notice the stiffness of your jeans or the patches of ice clinging to your clothes and hair, his head still foggy from being slammed against the ground before you found him. Bitterly, he berates himself for not seeing it before. The signs are right there. Steve doesn’t take his eyes off your face, taking in the discolored hue of your lips and the slow way you’re blinking, the more noticeable slur to the way you’re speaking.

Your eyes widen. Alarm twists your expression as you come to the same conclusion as him moments later than you should. “Steve…”

“Okay,” he says. Nervously, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Slowly, he lowers his hand again, hovering over your thigh briefly before he reaches for the lighter on the floor instead. Fire. He needs to light the damn fire. “It’s okay. Just let me…”

Where you fumbled with the lighter, Steve catches the flame first try. Logs are already piled in the fireplace from the cabin was still occupied, and there are more stacked in the corner from last summer, when Hopper coerced Steve and Jonathan into helping him chop down one of the old oaks nearby. It was Fourth of July weekend and Steve left with blisters on his hands and a bone-deep ache in his arms. There’s enough wood to survive the winter, more than enough to last for a few days out here, if you need to. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.

The kindling is still dry, thankfully. The flames spread quickly, the logs catching fire one after another until they’re burning steadily. He’ll have to keep an eye on it, make sure the flames don’t burn too low or burn out.

“There.” He clears his throat, sliding the lighter back into his pocket. The firelight casts a warm glow through the room, and for the first time tonight he gets a good look at you. In the light, the faint discoloration of your lips and skin is more prominent, and he can see how badly you’re trembling in your soaked clothes. “How’s that? Fire starting to help at all?” he asks, even though he knows it’s too early for your frozen limbs to thaw.

His heart sinks when you only give him a weak smile in return.

“Come on.” Steve taps your thigh, hooking one hand under your leg and tugging until your confusion melts into realization. Limbs stiff and numb, it takes a minute for you to stand like he wants, and once you’re on your feet you sway unsteadily, knees weak from being crouched in the same position for so long. He keeps you steady with his hand on your thigh, grip tight over an icy patch on your jeans. “We need to get you out of this,” he says, looking up at you as you place your hands on his shoulders delicately, a frown pulling at your pretty mouth.

“Your arm,” you start to argue, glancing at the sluggishly growing stain on his right sleeve.

“Can wait,” he tells you, firm. Your brows knit together, your lips pursing. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re freezing.” He sends you a pointed look as a shiver wracks your body, and you avert your gaze. “Your clothes are soaked,” he continues, rubbing his thumb back and forth against your inner thigh. “Baby, if we don’t warm you up…” He shakes his head. “And you were out there for hours. We need to get you out of these clothes. I’m not—I’m not gonna argue about this.”

You chew your bottom lip. “You’re bleeding,” you try anyway, fingers curling into his sleeve above the top laceration.

“I don’t care.” He squeezes your leg, pinning you with the most serious look you’ve ever seen. “Just… let me take care of you, okay? Will you please just let me take care of you first?” His eyes search yours. He finds them melancholy and heavy with guilt, and he hates that look more than anything. “And, this?” He shrugs his bad shoulder. “Doesn’t even hurt. Not even a little bit.”

“Liar,” you call him, just like you did this morning. And you’re right to. His shoulder is still throbbing, and the amount of blood soaked into his clothes is concerning, but he needs to take care of you first. Needs to make sure you’re going to be okay.

“I’m serious. It barely scratched me.” Besides, Steve’s suffered worse than a couple of cuts on his arm.

You’re still looking at him like you want to put up a fight, but it’s not long before you come to the conclusion that you’ll be no good to him like this—barely able to feel your fingers and toes, shaking so badly you couldn’t even light the fire without help.

“Okay,” you relent, giving in to the concern in his eyes and the gentle touch of his hand on your leg.

“Okay?”

You sniff, nodding. “Yeah.”

“All right.”

Steve lets you rest more of your weight on his shoulders as he shifts to a more comfortable position, his knees already starting to sting. Both of his hands slide up and down the outside of your thighs, soothing you more than trying to warm you up at this point. Friction won’t help anymore. Even if the ice melts, your clothes are still drenched. Staying in wet clothes will only make you sick, and that’s assuming you aren’t already, because it’s cold outside. Colder than cold, really, different from the kind of cold that November brings. This time of January, it’s the kind of cold that hurts when you breathe in too deep.

He squeezes your knee once before sliding his hand down your calf to where your pants are tucked into the top of your boot. It’s quick work, undoing the laces enough so that he can slip your shoes off without jostling you too much. You don’t make a sound as he keeps you balanced, chucking the shoes somewhere behind you without taking his eyes off your legs. He grimaces when he sees your socks are soaked through.

Soaked, but not frozen. It’s barely a respite, all things considered, but it’s better than the alternative, he supposes, already rolling the first damp sock down over the heel of your foot.

“Can you feel that?” he asks, glancing up as he runs his thumb over the top of your foot.

“Yeah.”

He lowers your foot to the floor, reaching for the other. “Both of them?”

This time you only nod.

Your fuzzy, purple socks join the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and he grimaces when he sees the wet patches near the hem of your jacket. “This, too, honey,” he says, tugging at the edge.

Again, all you do is nod, too cold or too miserable or too tired to put up any more of a fight for the time being. One of your hands leaves his arms as you start to shrug the coat from your shoulders, movements stiff and slow. Steve helps you from his spot on the floor, tugging on the sleeve to help slip it off. The second arm comes faster, and soon the jacket is laying in a heap on the floor behind you.

The palm of Steve’s hand runs along your thigh over the wet, frozen patches there. You stiffen briefly as his fingers slide to the button of your jeans, and when you look down you find his eyes already on you, searching your expression for permission to keep going. It’s going to hurt, sliding the wet denim off your legs, and he doesn’t want to push too hard too fast.

And your pulse shouldn’t jump the way it does, seeing him on his knees in front of you, thick fingers fiddling with the button on your jeans. Not when you’re borderline hypothermic and the wound on his arm is still bleeding sluggishly. Not when there’s something out there in the woods stalking you both. But you’re still foggy from the cold, and it’s impossible not to think about the last time he was on his knees for you like this, big hands grabbing at your thighs and mouth hot on your skin, moans muffled behind the palm of your hand as he had you pressed back against a door.

A muscle in his jaw twitches, and you wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

“Still doing okay? Do you want me to…” He swallows his tongue before he can ask if you want him to stop. You both know that right now he can’t. It’ll only make things harder.

“I’m okay.” You loosen your grip on one of his shoulders, finding the curve of his jaw instead and pressing the tips of your fingers to his cheek. You offer him a muted half-smile that only makes him feel worse and brush the hair from his face, hand stroking back the damp strands before falling back to his shoulder. “You can keep going.”

He wets his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, all right. Let me just…”

The button pops open with a deft move of his thumb and finger, easy in a way that only comes with familiarity. The click of your zipper sliding down is loud beneath the crackle of firewood, and it sends a shiver up your spine that you tell yourself is from the cold and nothing else.

Your fingernails bite into Steve’s shoulders as he loops his fingers around the waistband of your jeans and starts to tug them down. The material is soaked through and stiff, half-frozen where you slipped and went through the ice, damp everywhere else from the snow, and it’s a slow process, working the fabric down around your hips and thighs. Each inch might as well be a mile. He’s gentle as he rolls the waistband down, as gentle as he can be, anyway. At first, it isn’t bad. The fabric is stiff, sure, but being inside where it’s warmer has helped to soften the denim some. It’s worse on your right side. Where the left side slides down without too much trouble, the right sticks to your leg high on your thigh. Gentle pressure doesn’t inch the fabric loose, and his stomach drops when he sees the discolored skin peeking out from beneath.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he murmurs, the only warning he gives you before pulling harder.

You flinch and cry out when he has to peel your jeans away from your skin. It makes an awful, ripping noise, like it’s fused to your leg, and you nearly bite clear through your bottom lip in an effort not to scream. The slick sound of your skin peeling away from the fabric makes his stomach churn, and Steve slides his hand up your leg to your hip, squeezing gently as you let out a shuddering breath that dissolves into a wet sob.

He winces at every muffled whimper that slips between your lips, hating that he’s the one hurting you right now. Steve isn’t so self-loathing anymore to blame himself, but it still feels like he’s being sucker punched in the chest each time you cry out. When you do, he murmurs apologies. Reassurances. Nonsensical strings of words that he wishes made it hurt less. And maybe they do. You start to relax into his hold the more he talks, flinching and hiccupping less as he gets the fabric down to your knees. They slide down easier then, clinging less in the spots that are wet, not as tightly plastered to your calves where they were covered by your boots.

“How bad is it?” you ask, after he’s worked your jeans down to your ankles and helped you step out of the soaked denim. Your voice crackles over the words, wet and thick.

Steve stays on his knees in front of you, letting your shaking hands grip his shoulders too tight, your fingers digging in too close to the open wound on his arm. One of his big hands strokes up your leg from knee to hip, rubbing gently at the raw patches of skin. There are welts decorating your right leg, ruddy and dark like fresh bruises. Or burns. The sight of them makes him sick, but they aren’t nearly as bad as they could be, all things considered. Your left is relatively okay. You must have landed on your side when you fell.

You inhale sharply as he lingers over one for too long, and he whispers an apology that’s almost lost under the crackle of fire wood.

“Could be worse,” he tells you honestly. “It’s not pretty. And it’s gonna hurt like a bitch for a couple of days, but I don’t think we’ll have to amputate.”

You giggle. It’s startled and wet, but it’s a laugh, and he’ll take it.

His lips quirk upwards at the corners, and he almost leans in to kiss your hip, but stops himself, afraid to aggravate the sores on your legs any further.

“That’s probably for the best,” you say, easing your grip on his arms when he rubs circles into your hip with his thumb. There’s a touch of humor in your voice that makes the tension in his shoulders loosen. “I think you’d pass out if you had to cut my leg off. Then, we’d both be fucked.”

“You think I can’t handle a little blood?” he asks, scoffing. “I think my track record might prove otherwise.” Because he’s fought monsters before. Dozens of them. And they’ve ripped him to pieces before, but he’s always gotten right back up and kept swinging.

It would be different if it was you, though. Steve knows that. And you know it, too. The sight of your blood on Steve’s hands would make him sick. The idea of hurting you like that, even if it were necessary, makes him want to vomit.

He clears his throat and scrubs the thought away. His palm brushes against the welts forming on your leg again, careful not to hurt you. “Want me to look for something for these?” There might be some antibiotic ointment somewhere in here, but the best thing you can do for an ice burn is soak it in warm water, and that’s not going to be possible for a while unless one of you risks going outside to gather snow.

You follow a similar train of thought, more lucid now that the fire is warming you, and shake your head slowly. “No,” you say as he stands.

His breath hitches as sharp pain ripples through his right arm, and you frown up at him. Steve keeps his hands on your hips, his fingers slipping under the hem of your sweater so he can feel your skin. Clammy and covered in goosebumps, but solid and alive under his touch, growing warm. You press your hand to his chest, just beneath the lacerations splitting open his shirt.

“Sit,” you tell him, gently pushing him away from you towards the couch.

He wets his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

Steve cradles his injured arm to his side as he skirts around the coffee table, careful not to bang his shins against it this time. With his lingering adrenaline fading to nothing, the tenderness in his side is coming back in full force. Gingerly, he lowers himself onto the raggedy old couch, leans his head against the back, and watches you, backlit by the fire, as you gather your things.

You fold your jacket and leave it in a pile with your socks and shoes. The jeans you leave in a heap on the floor, too soaked to do much else with right now. Absentmindedly, your fingers brush against one of the welts resting high on your right leg, the same one Steve caressed. It must sting, because your hand flinches away and you wrap your arms around your torso instead, fingers clenched in the thick, knitted fabric. Feeling his gaze on you, you look up, silhouetted in shadows so he can’t see your expression.

Without a word, you come back to him.

The sweater you’re still wearing is damp instead of drenched, but you’re still shivering as you help him out of his own clothes, working in silence as you watch him with worried eyes, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, biting it raw as you get a better look at the extent of the damage. His jacket and uniform top are ripped across the shoulder and soaked through with blood, beyond repair. You could try sewing the gashes shut, but you’d never be able to fully wash out the stains, an ugly reminder of tonight.

Steve is able to shrug the jacket off on his own, working the zipper down with his good arm and wriggling to slip the sleeve down his shoulder. The right sleeve is harder, and he winces as he bends his injured arm, expression screwing up in a way that has you reaching out to smooth a hand through his hair. Your palm comes to rest on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing back and forth. He leans into your touch, eyelids fluttering shut briefly before he finally wrenches the heavy jacket from his arm.

He tosses it to the other end of the couch and wonders if he should burn it to mask the scent of blood.

The button up is harder. The blood makes the fabric stick to his skin, and he struggles with the buttons until you brush his fingers aside and replace them with your own. Nimbly, you pop them open, hands beginning to shake less as the numbness and pain retreat. He doesn’t complain, sighing and sinking back further against the couch, watching you through half-lidded eyes as your hand moves down his chest.

Once his shirt is hanging open, you pause, chewing your lip as you try to decide what to do next.

You wish you had a pair of scissors. Something to cut through his shirt and make it easier to remove. Less painful to remove. But you aren’t sure if there’s one left in the cabin, and you aren’t willing to leave him alone for long to look. With his jacket gone you can see just how much blood he’s already lost, and your stomach twists sickly at the red stains covering most of his right arm and the side of his chest.

Steve is patient, watching as your brows pinch together and your lips turn down. Your hand is on his chest, pressed to the lower part of his ribs where you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, reassuring you that he’s alive.

Slowly, your palm slides upwards, moving closer to the bloody gashes resting higher on his chest. You lower yourself onto the couch next to him, your knees pressed up against his right thigh. You’re half-sitting on the arm of the couch, leaning forward to get a better look at the mangled part of his arm without pressing up against him.

“What do you think, doc?” he asks, letting your touch move over his arm even though it hurts like a bitch. “Am I gonna lose the arm?”

He’s hoping for another smile, maybe even a laugh, if he’s lucky, but you only frown, brows pinched together. “I have to get your shirt off, Steve.”

There’s an apology beneath the statement, and he sighs, leaning into you more as you play with the hair at the nape of his neck in an effort to make him relax. “Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Do what you gotta do.”

“It’ll hurt,” you warn him, your free hand skimming the thin slices in his shirt, careful not to apply any pressure. “Some of the blood is dry. Or, frozen. It’s not going to come off nicely.”

Steve thinks of the way he had to peel the jeans from your legs, how the tearing sound made him want to puke.

“Like ripping off a really fucking big band aid,” he mutters.

You nod, stroking his hair away from his face. “Yeah. A really fucking big band aid.”

“Awesome,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.”

Where Steve had been hesitant to work your jeans down your legs, you’re more certain in your actions as you grab the right side of his open shirt and pull the ripped strips of fabric away from his wounds. It’s not that you have less reservations about hurting him, you’ve simply been doing this for years, patching him up after every stupid fight he got into during high school, taking care of him after monsters would ravage Hawkins once per year, ruthless in your need to keep him alive.

“Son of a—fuck!” he groans, eyes screwing shut as he clenches his teeth so hard that they rattle, his jaw aching under the pressure. Whispered apologies soothe the hurt, but he can’t make out the words behind the burning sensation on his chest and the dull ringing in his ears.

Barely allowing him a break, you’re quick to turn your attention to the deeper cuts on his arm. The pale blue fabric is bunched sideways until it starts to pull on the wound, the fibers sticking to the raw, fleshy edges of the lacerations. Clots pull and crack, bleeding freely again as you start to dislodge the soiled remains of his shirt. Steve’s hands are clenched into fists at his side, white-knuckled and shaking with the effort to keep still.

He hisses in surprise when the blue fabric peels away from the top cut on his arm, the shallowest of the three. All are still bleeding, but it’s sluggish now, even as the clots and scabs start to come loose with the fibers you pull free. He isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not—if he was bleeding more, maybe this would hurt less.

One by one, you unstick his shirt from his arm, and once the remains of his shirt pull away from the blood crusting under the open wound on his bicep, you yank the soiled fabric down to his elbow, shoving it further to his wrist, and then off before you toss it onto the floor.

He’s breathing heavily through his nose when you glance at his face. A thin sheen of sweat mats his hair to his forehead, and you brush the unruly strands back, leaning down to press your lips to his temple.

The tips of your fingers brush against the skin above his elbow before sliding upwards, though you stop shy of the lacerations. There are three of them. Shallow across his chest; deeper through the flesh of his arm. The cuts across his pec have stopped bleeding again already, beginning to clot and crust over into thick, itchy scabs. His skin is a mess of flaking, frozen blood, smeared across his chest and arm in a way that looks like one big open wound. The warm air and sticky feeling make him wince.

“Oh, Steve,” you murmur, thumb brushing the underside of one of the cuts. Your finger comes away red and wet when you pull back. The somber, guilty lilt of your voice makes his jaw clench harder, but he keeps his mouth shut as you examine the wound the monster left behind.

None of this is your fault, and he’ll make sure you know that later, but you don’t need reassurance from him while he’s still bleeding and his head is throbbing from being cracked against the ground.

There’s a joke on the tip of his tongue when he gets his breathing back under control, something to lighten the mood, even just a little. His head feels foggy as he peels his eyes open, looking at you. As if you can feel his gaze, you lift your head. Your eyes meet his, and they’re red and watery, and whatever he was about to say gets stuck in his throat.

“These need stitches,” you tell him, grasping his bicep under the cuts. “I don’t… I don’t think they’re too bad, but just to be safe. In case…” In case it comes back, you think, but don’t say out loud. In case you have to run. In case you have to fight. “We’ll need to get you checked out by a doctor.”

Steve nods. Your sweater is bunched up under his hand, his palm pressed to the small of your back, but he doesn’t remember grabbing you. He doesn’t know who he’s trying to ground, you or him. “Coyote?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Bear,” you decide after several seconds of thinking. “We went for a walk before the snowstorm and didn’t see it until it was too late. It ran off after you took a shot at it.”

He leans his head back against the couch. “As close to the truth as possible, huh?” The smile he sends you is wry, and you offer one of your own, but it’s damp and wobbles at the edges. Steve rubs his hand against your lower back. “I’m okay, honey.”

“You’re not,” you correct him immediately, a little bite to your tone. “I’ll get the first aid kit. We left one in the bathroom.”

Without another word, you slip from Steve’s hold and get off of the couch, careful to avoid his eyes as you grab the flashlight off the coffee table. The floor creaks under your bare feet as you hurry from the room before he can call out to you, trying not to run as you b-line towards the tiny bathroom.

As soon as you step into the room, you click the flashlight on, shutting the door with your back and fumbling for the knob to lock the door behind you. The flashlight beam is even weaker than it was before, the flickering growing more frequent. Ignoring the erratic flickers, you shove away from the door and set the flashlight on the edge of the sink.

“Come on, come on,” you murmur to yourself, throwing open drawers and the medicine cabinet doors in search of the damn kit. It should have been in the cabinet. That’s where you left it last summer after—and you haven’t touched it since. It should still be here.

You slam one of the drawers closed.

The flashlight clatters to the ground and goes dark.

Throat tight, you lean over the sink, breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. Your pulse quickens. Blood is sticky between your fingers, your hands shaking so badly that you have to grip the edge of the sink so tightly that the porcelain digs into your palms until they hurt. It’s too dark. Too dark to see anything but shapes and shadows in the mirror. Behind you, a figure moves, looming over you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Try to breathe the way your dad taught you.

You’d kept your explanation to Steve short. Five hours is too much to condense into a single sentence. Though, you hadn’t lied, mostly. You ran. You hid. That’s it. That’s the simplest way to put it, because thinking about the details has bile tickling at the back of your mouth. Acid burns your throat, acrid and choking. You lean over the sink and try not to gag.

That thing had chased you through the woods for what seemed like hours, driving you deeper into the woods until you weren’t sure where you were anymore. You couldn’t find the road. Or the cabin. For hours, it seemed like you were just running in circles. Lost. Terrified.

And then it caught you.

You fell into the creek. You fell, and your hip smashed through the layer of ice covering the running water. The cold knocked the breath out of your lungs. In the next blink, it was on top of you. Those sightless, milky eyes bored into yours. The matted hair around its face hung vertically. The wiry, greasy ends tickled your cheek. It crouched over your body, gangly limps jutting out, spiderlike, elbows and knees sharp and skin pulled taut.

“Hello?” it called to you in your own voice.

Clawed fingers reached out and you squeezed your eyes shut, unable to stop the sob ripping from your throat or the tears leaking down your face. You flinched as a lone claw delicately slid down your cheek. A sick imitation of a caress.

“Hello? Steve?”

“Please,” you choked out.

And it repeated “please” and cocked its head to the side, asked, “Cold?” in Steve’s voice.

You only sobbed again.

For what felt like hours, you laid there, that thing leaning over you, repeating words back to you in your voice—in Steve’s voice. What made you sickest was when it said words you hadn’t said, still using your voice. No longer just mimicking.

And then it cocked its head to the other side. Once more, it ran a spindly finger down the side of your face. You closed your eyes tight enough to see spots, and when you opened them again it was gone.

The flashlight flickers on.

There’s nothing in the mirror behind you.

When you come back to the living room, you’re carrying the first aid kit, a pile of old towels, and a bottle of rum. Without a word, you plop down onto the coffee table across from Steve, your knee knocking gently against his. He doesn’t mention how long you were gone, or the redness of your eyes.

He eyes the bottle as you flick open the locks holding the old, plastic first aid kit shut. “Your old man’s gonna be pissed that the rum’s gone,” he says, squinting to read the label in the firelight and whistling when he recognizes the brand. “Damn, this is the good stuff. He’ll have a conniption or some shit. Jesus.”

“Let him,” you say, glancing up from the contents of the kit to meet his eyes. “We’ll get him something nice for the wedding.”

The edge of his mouth quirks upwards, but it’s weak. Now that you’re finally getting a chance to really look at him, you can see the exhaustion dragging down his features. His smile isn’t there, and his eyes are half-lidded. His focus keeps drifting when he isn’t talking, and you aren’t sure if you should be more worried about the blood loss or the probable concussion.

Queasy with the thought, you turn back to the first aid kit, biting your lip as you examine the meager supplies left over from whenever you last stocked it. It must have been sometime last summer, before the gate was breached. You patched Steve up that time, too. A bloody gash on the outside of his leg. And Lucas had a cut above his brow that wouldn’t stop bleeding no matter how long Max kept pressure on it. All that’s left now is a roll of gauze, half a bottle of peroxide, and an old suture kit you kept, just in case.

It’s not much, but you’ll have to make it work.

“Drink,” you say, pressing the rum into his hands.

Steve doesn’t argue. With a twist, he pops the glass stopper out of the top and brings the bottle to his lips, face screwing up as he swallows a mouthful of the amber liquid. It burns on the way down, taste distorted by the blood in his mouth. He takes another swig as you lay towels and your suture kit on the arm of the couch, the peroxide in your hand.

“Stay still for me,” you tell him.

There’s no good way to reach the lacerations on Steve’s shoulder and the top of his chest, so without hesitation, you swing one leg over his lap. He tenses when you straddle him, grasping your waist with one big hand to steady you as you settle on top of him. The heat of his hand sinks into your skin through your clothes and you can’t help the content sigh that accompanies his touch.

The bottle almost slips out of his grip as you pour peroxide on one of the towels and press the cloth to the cuts on his chest. “Fuck,” he hisses, squeezing his eyes shut as you dab at the cuts, cleaning the dried blood off his skin. “Christ. Easier said than done. A little warning next time?”

You ignore him, wiping his skin clean with as gentle a touch as you can manage right now.

The two of you slip into a mindless rhythm, quiet as you clean him up with one hand, the other pressing a towel to the deeper wounds on his shoulder, hoping to stop the bleeding. Steve’s breathing becomes labored as you work, pained noises and curses muttered into the dimly lit room. You don’t do more than clean his skin and tape gauze over the shallow claw marks splitting open his skin.

A muscle in Steve’s jaw jumps as the space between you continues to shrink, your hips flush with his, and it’s impossible not to notice how close you are, how good your weight feels on top of him. His grip on you tightens as your ministrations shift to his shoulder, his fingers digging into your side over your sweater until he craves contact enough to slip his hand under your clothes.

You’re gentle as you clean his wounds. As gentle as you can be, anyway. Once the blood is cleaned away from the wounds on his arm, you pause, one hand hovering over the suture kit as you bite your lip, worrying it raw. They need stitches. Desperately. Cleaned, they don’t look quite as bad as when his arm was a mess of blood and tissue, but now you can see just how deep they go, how long they are. Each cut is at least four inches long, probably longer. They aren’t as deep as you feared, but they need more than gauze and peroxide.

“How many?” he asks as your fingers trace the underside of one of the gashes. He pulls you tighter to his chest with the hand on your back as you look at him. “Stitches.” He wets his lips after clarifying. “How many stitches?”

Your hand wraps loosely around his bicep. “The cuts are pretty long, Steve,” you admit, lips downturned.

“Just tell me how many, honey.”

For several seconds, you’re silent, thumb rubbing against the inside of his arm soothingly. “Maybe twenty, twenty-five for each, to be safe,” you tell him. “You’ll have to get them redone as soon as we can get you to a hospital. Right now, I’m more worried about the bleeding than an infection.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding in understanding. He pulls his arm from your grasp as he raises the rum bottle to his lips and takes another long drink, then sets the bottle on the side table. “Yeah, okay—okay. Let’s, let’s get it over with.”

Your hands shake as you thread the medical suture through the end of the needle. Steve leans his head back against the couch, his eyes closed as he waits for you to start. His hand is twisted in your sweater again, gripping the damp fabric tightly to keep himself grounded to you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

The first stitch is rough. He groans, long and low as you push the needle into his skin and pull it through to the other side. You keep your weight settled over his hips, holding him in place on the couch as he fights not to thrash against the white-hot, burning sensation lacing across his upper arm. You work quickly, tying off the thread and cutting it carefully.

Neither of you speak for a long time, the silence broken by the popping firewood and the hisses and groans that slip between Steve’s teeth as you stitch him shut, pausing every few minutes to wipe away the blood sluggishly leaking from his wounds.

Twenty-five. That’s how many stitches it takes to sew the first gash shut. Not professional by any means, but prettier than he could have done himself. There’s a fine layer of sweat covering him by the time you pause to look over your work, and his hair is matted to his forehead. You run your fingers through the strands, pushing them away from his eyes before letting your knuckles graze his cheek.

Steve breathes out, a shaky sound.

You make it halfway through the second gash before Steve speaks.

“You still have the car keys, right?”

You glance up, meeting his half-lidded gaze as you tie off a stitch. “Yeah. Why?”

The tips of his fingers press into your back subconsciously, holding you tighter to him. The weight of what he wants to say lays heavy on his chest, making it impossible to breathe. When he doesn’t answer, you look at him again, needle in hand and blood staining the skin around your fingernails.

“Listen,” he starts, hand dropping to your hip, “if that thing comes back—”

You tense over his lap, fingers digging into his arm below his open wounds. “No,” you shut him down.

Steve shakes his head, continuing as if you didn’t speak. “I want you to run.”

“Absolutely not,” you’re quick to argue. “I’m not—I’m not just going to leave you.”

He presses his palm to the base of your spine, keeping you close when you start to pull back. “No one’s leaving anybody.” He says it like it’s a promise, staring back at you with those big, hazel eyes. Sincere. Sober and exhausted, all the alcohol has done is loosen his tongue a little. He’s been mulling over this since he heard you crying in the bathroom, sobs muffled behind the door. “Look, if it gets inside… I want you to run for the car, okay? Just run. I’ll be right there behind you, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

“No, you won’t,” you say, bitterness creeping into your tone. Because you know him. You know Steve better than you know yourself, and he’s an idiot with too big a heart and too little self-preservation. Because he doesn’t care what happens to him so long as everyone else makes it out alive, but you do. If Steve thought he could give you the chance to run—to stay behind and ensure you stay safe, you know he’d take it.

The bite in those three words makes him wince, but he pushes ahead anyway. “Get to the Byers’ new place. Your dad’s practically got an artillery in the shed. You’ll—you’ll have to protect the kids. Please, can you just—can you do that?”

The needle slips from between your fingers.

You reach up, cup Steve’s face in your bloodstained hands and force him to look at you. “I’m not going anywhere without you,” you tell him firmly, breaking midway through. You swallow back the lump in your throat, forced to speak around the tightness there. “If you think I am, then maybe you really are an idiot. Now shut up and let me work.”

You’re harsher than you mean to be, and you turn back to Steve’s arm before he can see the wetness gathered along your lash-line. The needle dangles against his bicep, but your hands are shaking too much to add another suture so soon, so you busy yourself by wetting a towel and dabbing at the fresh blood leaking around the wounds.

Steve taps an unrecognizable pattern against your spine, stroking over the small of your back like an apology.

It’s another minute before you grab the needle again. Neither of you speaks as you continue to sew him up; you stop whispering reassurances between sutures.

After you cut the last stitch, you dip your chin and press your lips to the top of his shoulder.

He draws you into his chest, ignoring the way his arm protests the movement, the stitches pulling awkwardly as his muscles flex beneath the thread.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his neck, muffled, but close enough for him to hear. It’s a tight squeeze, an awkward angle, but you manage to wrap your arms around his back, pressing to him like a second skin. “Fuck, Steve, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” Yelled at him. Called him an idiot. Dragged him into this bullshit because you messed up and couldn’t handle it yourself. He never should have been out here in the first place.

And he knows you so well. Well enough to know the way your thoughts are spiraling as fear and exhaustion sink deep into your bones. “Hey, hey, hey,” he says, hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck, thumb pressed to your pulse. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t… don’t blame yourself, okay?” And God he wishes he was better with words. If he was, maybe he could do something other than sit here and hold you as you shake in his arms.

Your fingers curl against his back, searching for something to hold onto, but only finding skin.

“If I had just stayed home—”

“Don’t.”

“—and you got hurt because of me.”

His grip shifts to your jaw. Gently, he pulls you away from the curve of his neck, his hand on your chin coaxing you to look at him as he sweeps his thumb across your cheek. Your eyes are puffy, red and watery, and it breaks his heart. “This thing was already here, remember? Last night, I heard it. So did Will. And so did the Mulligans. It was already here,” he tells you again. “And it was hunting, or whatever the hell it’s out there doing. And we would have had to handle it anyway, like we always do. We just caught on a little faster this time.”

“Steve,” you say softly.

He slides his hand around to the back of your neck and pulls you down for a chaste kiss before you can say anything else. It doesn’t last for more than a moment. Just long enough to steal the words from your lips, the warm press of his mouth on yours a reminder that he’s here. That he’s alive. Your arms come unstuck from behind him, and your hands cup his cheeks as he pulls away, reluctant to let him go too far.

“I thought you were dead,” you murmur as he leans his forehead against yours. “I heard the gunshot, and I ran and… and you were just lying there. And there was blood everywhere. And you weren’t… you weren’t moving, Steve. You weren’t moving. I thought you weren’t—I thought—”

His mouth slots against yours once more, lingering longer, a little harder. His crooked nose bumps against yours, and it tastes like iron and salt as his mouth moves against your own, your lips parting under his like muscle memory. Ignoring the burn in his shoulder, Steve crushes you against his chest, holding you close and hoping you can feel his heart beating in time with yours.

The fire crackles and snaps, and you watch as the new logs Steve placed into the hearth are consumed by the flames. The heat radiating from the fireplace warms your skin, but your sweater is still damp. The wet fabric is heavy on your frame, clinging in strange spots, and you haven’t stopped fidgeting uncomfortably since you finished the stitches in Steve’s arm, but you haven’t been able to will yourself to strip off the last of your clothes. Keeping them on will only make you sick, you know that, but the thought is shoved to the back of your mind as you stare into the flames, entranced.

Neither of you can make sense of the time.

Steve’s watch must have come loose in the snow, and you’ve never been inclined to wear one, so it was impossible to tell how late it was by the time you and Steve finally disentangled yourselves from each other. There was a bottle of pain medication in the first aid kit, and Steve swallowed two of them dry after you pressed the bottle into his hand. At some point, you started shivering again, far enough from the fire that your sweater refused to dry, and Steve gently slid you from his lap with a hand on your hip, nudging you towards the fireplace to warm up as he muttered about finding blankets for the two of you. It didn’t escape you how pale he looked, dark circles like bruises under his eyes, a clammy sheen to his skin.

You hadn’t realized just how physically exhausted you were until you stood and swayed on your feet. It couldn’t be any later than eight, maybe nine, by the time you finished closing the wound on Steve’s arm. Between mopping up the blood and forcing your hands to stop shaking after each suture, the process lasted longer than it should have.

There’s still blood crusted under and around your fingernails, dry and flaking off as you pick at the blotchy, ruddy stains. Each time you close your eyes you see teeth and gangly, grotesque limbs, sightless eyes staring down at you, your own voice calling out from a mouth that isn’t yours.

Outside, the wind shrieks, a shrill cry that you swear sounds like Steve’s name.

Shaking your head, you will the thought away. You shift your weight from one leg to the other as the cold registers again.

Your fingers tremble as you grasp the hem of your sweater and peel the thick fabric over your head. It squelches. Droplets splatter down your chest and back as your grip wrings water from the material. The sweater lands in a wet heap on the floor, and you wince at the loud, slick sound, more wet than damp like you thought it was.

With shaky, frozen fingers you fumble with the clasp of your bra for several seconds before you’re able to shrug the equally damp fabric down your arms. Immediately, the chilly air descends on your now bare skin. Goosebumps erupt across your chest, and you bite your lip to stifle a breathy whimper.

Steve hears you over the crackle of the fireplace. Glancing up from the makeshift nest of blankets he’s piled together, he can’t help the way his head snaps back up for a second look. Cold and shivering, you’re standing by the clothes rack he managed to dig out from one of the closets, angled in a way that leaves you in shadow, the silhouette of your bare breasts illuminated in the firelight. His breath catches, his heart lurching into his throat as your fingers slide over your hips and slip beneath the hem of your panties, dragging them down an inch.

“Don’t,” he says, louder and sharper than he means to. Gasping, your head snaps towards him, eyes wide. Steve clears his throat, looking away. “Don’t. If they’re dry, you should keep them on. You’ll be warmer that way.” The subtle innuendo makes him wince, but from the corner of his eye he sees your hands leave your panties, watches as your arms come up to cover your breasts instead.

You wet your lips. “Right.”

You glance at the fire again, arms crossed over your chest, the flames warming your bare skin and finally chasing away the chill that seeped into your bones and took root inside you, like you’d never know heat again. With your head turned to the side, you don’t see Steve’s eyes wander back to you, unable to help himself, but you can feel the weight of them tracing over your frame. Fire licks across your spine, and it has nothing to do with the flames in front of you.

This shouldn’t be awkward, Steve thinks. It’s not the first time he’s seen you naked. Not even close. But this feels different. Intimate. Vulnerable. It’s not a clash of teeth and tongues, his hands grabbing your ass and hoisting you up against the nearest wall as you yank at his belt with impatient fingers because the world might as well be ending and you need to feel each other closer, at least once more, just in case. It’s not a tipsy kiss at a party neither of you want to be at, with his fingers slipping under your skirt as he bends you over a bathroom counter. Different from the risky quickies you’ve had in the front seat of his car, both of you pent up and desperate for release, your panties hooked to the side and his pants shoved down just enough for your hand to wrap around his cock.

Steve has seen you naked. He’s fucked you senseless, more than once. This is softer, somehow. Sweeter. No frantic hands. No desperation. In any other situation, it would be almost romantic.

Standing from his spot knelt next to the pile of blankets, Steve keeps his gaze firmly on the floor as he tugs at his belt, quickly slipping out of his wet and stained pants. His hands still as the floor creaks under your steps, his head tilting towards you as he sees you out of the corner of his eye.

Your arms are still crossed over your chest, loose enough for him to see the swell of your breasts. This close, he can see you’re wearing those lacy, royal blue panties that he likes. “Come warm me up?” you ask like you did last night, but there’s an implication there that wasn’t before. You want to forget tonight. You want to forget all of it, and Steve has always been good at making your thoughts grow quiet.

You’re close enough to touch. And he thinks about laying you out on the blankets, covering your body with his own and kissing you senseless until you’re moaning and writhing underneath him—your breathy cries sinking into him and drowning out the horrific screams still echoing in his head. You’d let him. There’s a look in your eyes, heady and dark, that tugs at the pit of his stomach and makes his skin feel hot.

Beneath that is something haunted.

Steve dips his chin and presses his lips to your temple instead.

“Come here, honey,” he murmurs against your skin. You shiver, eyes squeezing shut as he wraps his arm around your lower back, pulling you against him.

It isn’t long before the two of you make your way down against the blankets, burying beneath thick quilts and fuzzy throw blankets left behind during a hasty move. Steve kisses you again, soft and sweet, and you sigh into his mouth as his chest presses to yours, skin against skin. Just once, and then you slot into place against his side, head tucked under his chin and an arm slung over his stomach, your fingers sprawled beneath his navel.

You both lie there for a while, listening to the storm rage outside. You’re quick to drift, hours of being lost in the woods and hunted down leaving you unable to keep your eyes open once you’re pressed safe and warm to Steve’s side.

The rhythmic puffs of your breaths tickle his chest as Steve runs his hand along the curve of your hip and waist, pacifying himself as much as it soothes you. Exhaustion hits him hard, the last twenty-four hours catching up to him as your cold toes press against his legs. And for a moment he can pretend he’s home, with you.

There’s a tap against the window. Innocuous, but loud enough to rouse him from a doze.

“Steve?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, muffled and far-off, distorted even though you’re so close. He hums instead of answering, head lolling towards yours. You shift closer to him, your lips pressing against the dip of his collarbone. A content sigh heaves from your lungs.

“Steve?” you whisper again. Your mouth doesn’t move.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #steve harrington #st fic #stranger things fic #fic: into open flames

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