My heartfelt apology for not posting for a while, enjoy :)
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cw: pure smut, that’s it
A video of you and Ellie in the car, it’s rather plain, actually. She’s holding your phone, facing her way, while you seem a little occupied. But for some reason, the point of the video seems quite unclear, because for some reason, Ellie just can’t seem to get the right words out.
And instead of words coming out of her mouth, its moans and whispered swears broken up with stifled giggles from the two of you. And oh, now it’s quite obvious, what with how her head is slowly leaning back and hitting the headrest, and the first syllables of a failed sentence tries miserably to escape Ellie’s throat.
“Say it.” You whisper, sounding as though your voice is muffled.
A silence follows, then a small slurp, then a snicker as you hear her whimper. From your point of view, it’s just so fucking funny seeing Ellie struggle like this. The camera’s out of focus now, shaking slightly and facing the wrong way, but who can blame her for not focusing on the angles? Bless her, with how she tries to lift her head and look into the camera as she speaks.
“I just….just wanted to-fuck- to say that I love my girlfriend so m-much.”
“She makes me….?” You stare up at her expectantly, wiping your lips with your tongue as you slowly trace two fingers up and down, the way she’s soaking the leather seats translating into such a wet noise that the video could pick up on it.
“…She makes me s-sooo happy, and……makes me feel so good-holyshitdon’tpleasedontstop-”
“I won’t, baby.” What you say is muffled once again, your tongue now occupied all on her puffy clit, sucking and swirling above your two fingers, thrusting in and out at just the right angle. And thank god for your other hand staying unoccupied, as you take the reins on recording (since Ellie is too fucked out to care at this point).
The new angle, showing your face as you tongue fuck her, and showing the foggy car windows behind you, just barely illuminated from that busted streetlight. As you glance up at Ellie, all your encouraging open mouthed “uh huh”s and moans at how she tastes just turn into little giggles at what the fuck you’re both doing right now - fucking your girlfriend in some residential driveway, meaning you need her to stay quiet because you both were too horny to wait until you got home.
But you couldn’t really care less, as you feel her clench harder and harder on your fingers, her tattooed arm coming down to card her fingers through your hair. And you really can’t find it in you to care about anything at all as her soft hold turns into a harsh grip and tug as you make her unravel in your tongue, using your fingers to brush against her sweet spot as you slurp and suck everything Ellie gives you.
You bite your lip and smile as her breathing finally goes from heavy, whiny pants to soft sighs, pulling yourself up from the floor and into her lap. And just as you lean down to kiss her, you make sure the camera’s got both of you in frame as you make out with Ellie. You make sure she tastes herself on you, coaxing open her mouth and slipping your tongue against hers which, to your delight, elicits another small groan from her, and then a slow, fucked out smile against your mouth - one that you reciprocate.
And it feels so good to slide your hand up and pull at her hair this time, while you start to slowly grind and swivel your hips against hers - a taste of what’s to come next. You feel her hands slowly begin to trace up, up, up your back and under your clothes, a small sign that she’s ready for another round. But before you can do anything more, the fucking porch light at the end of the driveway turns on, and fuck, did the front door just open?
“Shit!”
Followed by loud snickers from the both of you as you clamber into the passenger side and Ellie stomps down on the peddle, pants still down and all. And as she tries to navigate the unfamiliar neighbourhood, you lean over and try to help her with her pants - pulling them up and grabbing her belt. But she stops you, taking a hand off the wheel and gently pushing you off.
“We’re picking up where we left off the monent we get home. Don’t bother with that, baby.”
So you just lean back into your seat, watching the houses go by as you wait with a smile on your face. Something tells you she’s gonna do good on that promise.
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I am humbly requesting a steve zombie au where the reader gets hypothermia hehehe😌
ty for ur humble request babe ♡ steve zombie au —steve freaks when you show symptoms of hypothermia. fem!reader 2k
"Steve, I think there's something wrong."
Steve raises his head to show he's listening, keeping his gaze on the map. You say it through shivers, sleeves pulled down over your makeshift mittens. "What's wrong, honey?"
He's noticed you aren't yourself today, and he thinks a soft tone is the least he can give you. The stupid map in his hand is tattered, creased down the middle from folding and unfolding. He thought getting to Michigan would be easy, walk in one direction and keep on, but you both need to eat and rest and the weather is too cold to go any further. He needs to find a residential, tonight.
"I feel off. I'm tired and I…" Your mumbling drifts off.
Steve shoves the map under his arm, "What? Tell me."
"Cold," you say, slurred, offering your hands. "I can't feel my fingers."
You're wearing socks over your hands, the best gloves Steve could offer. He takes them with a severe frown, unhappy when the cold of your skin permeates through. You're ice.
"And you don't feel well?" he asks, feeling up your arm to your neck.
Steve digs under the layers of your shirts, hoodie, coat, feeling for your pulse. It feels alarmingly slow. He'd never guess from looking at you how slow your heart is pumping.
Steve doesn't know everything, but he knows you're not supposed to be this cold for this long. You shiver as his fingers warm your neck, a pained hum coming from the very back of your throat as he pulls you in for a hug.
"Okay," he says, rubbing your back even though he knows it's pointless. "Don't worry. We can't stay outside anymore, huh?"
Steve aches to have to drag you down road after road, stretches of streets littered with little protection to offer. The roadside stores here are rocked by the elements, windows smashed and ceilings caving in. You're stumbling by the time a crop of houses appear in the distance, lethargic. Steve thought it was bad that you were cold, of course, but this is a more primal fear. You're not cold, you're freezing, actively freezing.
"You're okay," he says again, his gentlest reassurance. "Sweetheart, just a few more minutes. See that house, the big brown shutters? That's where we're going. Can you do it?"
"I can do it," you murmur.
"I know, but it's my turn to ask stupid questions."
Dead trees line the street, a planter of flowers by the door turned to crisps. Steve props you against a beam of wood holding up the angled porch roof and opens the screen door. He tries the handle on the interior. It's locked, a good sign.
He's admittedly feeling the adrenaline of your imminent demise. Furious with the world and circumstances and himself for letting this happen, Steve kicks the door down with three big kicks. The bang rings like a shot through the entire neighbourhood, he imagines, but there's no time to worry about it.
"You have to–" little gasp, Steve's head hurts, "have to sweep the house," you say as he pulls you inside.
If there's something in here, he has to risk it. Out of options.
He's as softhanded as he can manage dropping you into a seemingly intact couch. The room appears untouched from whoever left it, rather plush, it's a room Steve would've liked to live in.
He grabs your face. You meet his eyes, startled.
"I'm going upstairs for blankets. If something happens, you yell for me as loudly as you can. You don't have to say anything, just scream. Seriously."
"Yeah," you say breathlessly. The last street of walking and the few steps has exhausted you.
"Don't sleep," he says severely.
"No, I won't."
Steve dumps his bag on the floor. He backtracks to the porch to grab yours and wedges the splintered door closed using your bag as a temporary stopper.
You must be hypothermic, cold for days, too cold to sleep last night, and it's all Steve's fault. We can do it, he'd said, just another push. He hoped for better standing further out of Indiana. None of it will matter if you get sick.
He spins to walk up the stairs, falls weak and rushes back into the living room to check on you.
"Everything's okay," he says, taking your face again into his hands and kissing your forehead. It's purely selfish.
You touch his elbow. "I know."
Steve takes off his jacket and puts it over your lap. The house is vaguely warmer than outdoors but it's far from enough to make a difference to you. Heart in his throat, he bounds up the stairs and onto the landing, an L-shape with one bedroom straight in front and four doors on left. The smell of gore coming from the closed master bedroom explains how it could be this clean; it wasn't uncommon at the start of the apocalypse for people to lock themselves in, kill themselves and their families. He has no interest in seeing it, nor unleashing the mould spores that come with decomposition. Whatever blankets were in there are worthless now.
He takes a left and opens the door with a slam. A teenage bedroom not unlike his own back home, a simple comforter on the bed. He grabs it and tosses it on the landing, dipping into the second room. Bathroom, nothing worth having. The third room is a utility room with a jackpot of folded sheets, towels, padded quilts, and a comforter rolled into a log. He throws everything onto the floor and forgets the fourth door, arms fit to burst with fabric as he descends back downstairs.
"Steve?" you ask.
"Yep, yes. I'm here." He drops the blankets at your feet. "Are your clothes damp?"
"I think… no."
"I'd tell you to take off your jacket," he begins, shaking the biggest comforter out over you as he talks, "but I want as many layers as possible. Come here, sweetheart. Lift your back a little." He tucks you in like a pastry. "Good. Good, thank you, sweetheart."
"You're being very nice," you mumble, your eyelashes twitching like you've dimes weighing down your eyelids.
"I'm always nice."
"No," you say, your head falling back into the couch cushions. It's a family couch made of soft fabrics, not the showy leather piece you'd expect in such a mammoth lodging. "You're okay, though."
Steve piles blankets on top of you. The cold is eating at him too, his nose stiff, his hair standing on end as gooseflesh ripples over his arms.
When you've been sufficiently sandwiched, he feels your face again. You're already warmer, his hand creeping down into your shirt to feel for your pulse. Ropey.
"Sweetheart, I need you to try and perk up," he says, rubbing your cheek with his thumb.
"Not feeling perky."
"Ah, but you're always perky. You're my sun, 'cos I'm so awful," he says, panic lining his plea. "You are. I'm going to make you something hot to eat."
"Hot air?" you ask, slinking further down into your hump of sheets.
"I think we might be in luck."
He speaks too soon, really. The cupboards are lackluster. The can of soup he'd been hoping to find doesn't materialise. But there's a small can of ravioli, enough salted fish to make any tom cat happy, and a jug of water beneath the sink. He looks at it and sighs in relief. You have two litres of rainwater in your bag, and that had been the rations. This is one less thing to worry about.
Steve makes sure that there kitchen door and the patio doors in the lonely dining room are locked, taking a big cooking pot from the pantry (depressingly empty bar a bag of sugar spilled on its side and a sack of grain) and a saucepan from atop the stove. He checks the gass but he's never that lucky, resigning himself to a typical campfire when it doesn't work.
"Steve, put it back on," you say as he comes back in, your eyes a little wider, slightly more alert. You've pulled your arms out from under the blankets, with his jacket in your hands.
Steve has kissed you before. You haven't talked about it out loud —he'd like to think a lot has been said in hand-holding, in spooning, and in you hand carding through his hair. He's eager to kiss you again, dumping his findings to hold your wrists. "Thank you," he says, kissing you clumsily, your lips cold. "Now put your arms in. I'll pull the blankets up."
"Can you kiss me again?"
"I'm trying to make you some hot water."
"I'm warm enough already. Please?"
Steve kisses you again. This time, he closes his eyes, puts his hand against your jaw. The sound of your lips pressing to his seems loud in the quiet.
He pulls away with a final peck. "Are you feeling warmer?"
You blow breath up your face. "Bet so."
Steve rolls his eyes and turns away to make a campfire in the stolen pot. He'll boil some water in the saucepan for you to hold like a risky hot water bottle, and make some warmed ravioli. It'll be sweet. And tomorrow, if you're feeling better, he'll scavenge for supplies in the neighbourhood. Tonight, he'll burn the kitchen chairs. They don't need them anymore.
"Settle in," he says, opening his backpack for the fire starters and matches. "We'll stay for a while, okay?"
"Yeah, okay. Sorry for the fuss."
"Are you kidding?" He can't look at you. He'll probably cry. "It's cold. You were cold, and we didn't– I knew your coat wasn't good enough but I just thought… well, it's my fault. It is. And I– I care about you so much," —he says it in a rush, true but unused to admitting his feelings to you or anyone— "I can't do this without you. I'll take better care of you, I swear. It won't happen again."
"You know what would really warm me up?" you ask.
Steve turns on his heel. "Let me make you something to eat."
"Not hungry, just cold."
Steve tamps down a giddy smile into one more respectable. "Let me feel your pulse," he relents, lifting the heavy layer of blankets to climb inside. Its roasting, the warmest he's felt in weeks, and your arm is alive as he slides into your side.
He puts his hand against your neck, waiting for a steady bump.
"Am I cured?" you ask.
Steve sighs in relief. "You're cured."
You wrap your arms around him. Life with you and in this situation is an endless rise and fall. Something shitty happens, you scrape by, and, as a victory, he gets to hug you in the end.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Steve asks.
"You just said I was cured, Steve," you mumble, digging your face into his shoulder. "Just. Stay here. Keep feeling me up."
"Not what I'm doing."
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