Snowed in

by bry0psida

Summary:

Steve's car breaks down in the middle of a snowstorm.

Chapter 1

The beemer’s been sputtering the last two miles or so, Steve’s been desperately holding out hope for a gas station to crest the horizon before she kicks it.

He knew driving his father’s vintage BMW in sub zero snow was a stupid idea, but like, Steve’s an idiot, he knows he’s an idiot, so he did it anyway. And here he is, pulling onto the side of the road so he doesn’t accidentally get rear ended now she’s slowing all the way down. Steve lets his head knock back against the head rest, groans, then kills the engine. He slips his gloves on before stepping out into the cold and popping the hood. He doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be looking at, Steve doesn’t know jack shit about cars, he’s just seen people do this in a bunch in movies and tv. It doesn’t seem to help.

Steve closes the hood and gets back in the car, digs his cellphone out of his pocket. No signal. Great. Just great. He’s not on a busy road, Steve’s seen maybe two or three cars since he got on. His options are wait for someone to stop or just get walking. He’s actually starting to panic a little, he’s not got a lot of water and no snacks, he’s got no idea where the nearest house or suggestion of civilization even is. Steve doesn’t wanna stick his thumb out like a hitchhiker, with his luck he’ll probably get an axe murderer.

He gives the car a few more tries, turns the key and lets the engine struggle to turn over for longer than is probably wise. He hunkers down in the car, wraps his coat around himself and waits for someone to drive by.

…

It’s been two hours. Steve’s bored shitless. He’s not stupid enough to play on his phone, knows he needs to save battery in case he gets walking and finds signal. No one’s driven past. Steve can’t sleep in the car, the insulation’s gone to shit over the years and he’s already freezing. All that’s left to do is walk.

He knows there’s near nothing in the direction he came for a good 30 minute drive, it’s probably smarter to go forward, right? Maybe not, Steve doesn’t know where anything is. He can’t decide, so he flips a coin. Heads forward, tails back. He gets heads.

Well, alright then. Forward it is.

Before Steve got out of the car he took the time to tuck the bottom of his jeans into his socks, his shirt into his underwear, the sleeves of his shirt into the ends of his gloves, doesn’t want any gaps. His coat’s zipped right under his chin, Steve can feel the cold metal rubbing against it with every step.

…

Steve’s not sure how long he’s been walking, definitely not long enough to justify laying down in the snow and succumbing to the cold. He should’ve just stayed in the car where he could still feel his fingers. Steve’s legs don’t want to cooperate, his joints feel like they’re seizing up, he can feel his sweat freezing on his skin.

There’s…something billowing into the air between the trees. Steve’s not sure what. Looks like smoke, or steam, hard to tell between the snow and the wind. Do humans experience mirages in all extreme weather, or just heat?

It’s definitely a stupid idea to venture off the road and into the trees. But Steve’s still an idiot, even when he knows better. He was starting to lose sight of the road anyway, the snow’s falling so thick now. He wades through the snow, slow and and unsteady. His limbs don’t want to cooperate, his legs feel heavy and uncoordinated, breathing is becoming a little harder. He’s about ready to collapse by the time he reaches a clearing in the trees and stumbles upon a log cabin. Steve’s lost all capacity for higher thought, all his mind is capable of now is cold so cold cabin warm lights on chimney smoke means fire. He doesn’t quite get down on his knees and crawl the rest of the way but it’s a near thing.

He collapses against the door, hands too clumsy and stiff to form a fist and knock. Steve kicks the door with his heel, flops onto his back on the cold and mostly dry wood. He’s shivering so hard his muscles feel like they’re cramping. He stares up at the roof of the porch, watches his breath mist in the air.

The door opens, light spills across the deck. “Holy shit. Harrington?”

Well. This isn’t what Steve expected at all. He tilts his head back and is greeted with the sight of Billy Hargrove frowning down at him.

“B-B-Billy?”

“Are you ok, dude?”

Steve’s teeth chatter. “C-cold.” Billy props Steve up, gets his hands under his armpits and hauls him into his arms. Steve feels like a rag doll, he’s basically limp as Billy carries him over the threshold, bridal style. Steve isn’t sure if he weighs near nothing or if Billy is still ripped. He’s lain down on the rug in front of the fire, a blanket is thrown over him. Steve tries to wrap it around himself but his fingers have other ideas. His rescuer tucks it round him, wraps it real tight. Steve feels like a frozen burrito.

Steve wriggles closer to the fire, close enough it hurts his face a little with how hot it is. A glass of water and steaming cup is placed before him in the space where wood meets brick. Steve gets his fingers round it, pulls it forward and breathes the steam.

The floor behind Steve bounces a little as Billy sits down. “How’re you feeling?”

“B-better,”

“That’s good. Feel your fingers and your toes?”

Steve curls his toes in his sneakers. He can feel them for the most part. “Uh huh.”

“No frostbite, then.” Billy flips the blanket off of Steve’s feet, starts unlacing his shoes and tugging them off. Steve makes an inquisitive noise. “I need to take off your wet clothes, help you warm up faster.” Steve hums in acknowledgement. Billy gets his shoes and socks off, disappears again and comes back with thick replacements. He pulls more of the blanket away, hands hovering above his damp jeans.

“’S o-ok, j-just take ‘em off.” Steve mumbles

Billy does. His fingers feel like hot pokers against Steve’s numb skin. His legs itch as sensation returns. Once the jeans are off Billy yanks on a pair of thermal pajama pants, tucks the bottom of the legs into the socks. He’s re-wrapped in the blanket from the waist down and uncovered from the waist up. Billy gets to work on his sodden coat.

“What’re you doing out in the snow alone, Steve?”

“C-car broke d-down. N-no signal.”

“Pretty standard in weather like this. You tryna get somewhere?”

Steve nearly bites his tongue when he’s wracked by a particularly violent shiver. He props himself up on an elbow, Billy helps him sit the rest of the way up, hands him the warm cup. Steve burns his tongue on the tea. “T-t-trying to g-get away.”

Billy strips Steve of the coat, starts peeling off his wet shirt. “You in trouble or something?”

“C-can’t t-think,”

Billy takes the cup and grabs a shirt, helps Steve fumble his way through the arms, pulls it over his head and tucks the bottom into the waistband. “My bad, forgot hypothermia can make you stupid till you warm up again.”

Steve blinks at Billy. Hypothermia’s the bad one, right? He should be worried about that. Why isn’t he worried about that?

Billy grabs a thick sweater, dresses Steve some more. It’s the most Steve’s been touched in months. Shame he can’t feel it as much as he’d like. He’s wrapped up in the blanket again, turned onto his side. Steve curls up into the fetal position, gets his face over the cup again and huffs steam. Billy gets two fingers on Steve’s pulse, holds them there for a little while, then pats him on the back and stands up. “Your heart isn’t too slow so you’ll probably be fine. Try not to fall asleep though, ok? I’ll tell you when you can.”

God, Steve’s tired. The only thing he wants more than to sleep is to not die. He drinks his water and his tea and forces his eyes to stay open.

Billy comes and goes, puttering round the cabin, doing things Steve doesn’t turn around to see. They don’t talk beyond the odd Still with us? Uh huh.

Steve’s feeling how cold he is more now he’s warming up. Lack of sensation makes way to burning, then itching. His capacity for thought expands as circulation improves, Steve can actually feel his heart beat without pressing a hand to his chest now.

The floorboards creak as Billy crouches down. Steve turns, looks at him, opens his mouth when Billy presents him with a thermometer. The metal is cold under his tongue. It beeps, Billy takes it out. “94 degrees, one more and you’re out of the woods.”

“Do you mean you’ll take me back to my car, or I’m not in danger of dying?”

“Second one. There’s a blizzard outside, you’re not going anywhere. Not tonight, at least.”

It’s not ideal. Steve doesn’t wanna go back to his father’s house so it’s nice to have an excuse not to, but he’s not sure he really wants to stay here. Steve hasn’t seen Billy in four years, doesn’t mean he’s forgotten what a douchebag he can be. Billy must see the discomfort in his face. “There’s another bedroom, you don’t have to hang out with me or anything. You can watch tv, I’ll read. Whatever.”

Maybe Steve’s being unfair. It’s been a while since high school. He’s not the same person, Billy probably isn’t either. The log cabin suggests as much. “Why are you even here? I thought you’d gone back to California.”

Billy licks his lips, looks amused. “It’s uh, it’s a long story.”

“We have all night,”

“Maybe later,” Billy stands, crosses the open room to the kitchen, opens the fridge. “You hungry? You should definitely be hungry by now.”

Steve’s stomach growls in response.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Just a little warning ahead of time for anyone who subscribed to the fic and didn't read the updated tags- I made Steve trans for the smut, which probably isn't what most of you were expecting.

Billy makes soup from scratch. Steve helps. It’s a little surreal. Billy’s patient, quiet. The mullet is gone, the rampant sexual tension isn’t. Steve was kind of hoping it’d fizzled out by now, but it’s definitely still there. Steve’s heart kicks a little when their fingers brush, and every time Billy holds eye contact a little longer than necessary, smirking in that self satisfied way he always used to.

All the movies that came with the cabin are old, like 70’s-80’s old. They settle on Raiders of the Lost Ark, ‘cause who doesn’t like Indiana Jones? They don’t talk a lot while they eat. When they’re done, Billy takes the dishes to the sink, doesn’t let Steve pause the movie as he washes. He comes back with a beer for himself and more tea for Steve. “Don’t I get a drink?” Billy nudges the mug further along the table with the side of his socked foot. “I meant a beer.”

“No,”

“No?”

“Not supposed to drink when you have hypothermia,”

“I’m not hypothermic now,”

“Better safe than sorry,”

Steve sighs. “Can I at least have a cigarette?” Billy considers the packet for a moment before handing him a stick and lighting it with a match. “Thanks.” Steve exhales a cloud of smoke, hopes the rhythmic breathing and having something to do with his idle hands will calm him down.

Billy’s probably not into Steve. There hasn’t been any flirting or even much conversation, it’s all gotta be on his end. Then Billy honest to god fakes a yawn, does that bullshit stretch to drape his arm round Steve like Steve did with girls when he was a sophomore. Surely Billy is fucking with him.

Billy’s arm isn’t quite touching Steve, but he knows it could at any moment. Steve leans forward to ash his cigarette. Billy’s hand cups around Steve’s shoulder, gently pulls him back into the couch. “I got it,” he says as he leans forward to grab the ash tray on the coffee table, keeping a hand on Steve’s back.

Billy holds up the ashtray for Steve, then places it on the arm of the couch closest to him, leans into his space to put it there. It’s. It’s a lot all at once. Steve’s dick pulses once in his underwear, like it’s not sure whether Steve is into this or not. Steve’s not all that sure himself.

The cigarette doesn’t calm him down. Even Harrison Ford and ‘ol reliable nicotine aren’t enough to distract from the fact Billy is inching closer and closer, muscular thigh pressing against his own. Steve is hyper aware of every point of contact. The sculpted arm draped around his shoulders, the fingers rubbing small circles into his upper arm, callouses catching on the fabric of the sweater. Steve feels like a preteen about to have his first kiss, heart beating loud in his ears.

Billy’s looking at him, Steve can see his whole face turned in Steve’s general direction in his peripheral vision. Did he- did he just lick his lips?

“So, uh,” Steve fumbles. “You never did tell me why you’re kicking it in a cabin out in the woods.”

“Do you really wanna talk about that?” Billy shuffles impossibly closer on the couch, caging Steve in. He catches Steve’s chin in his free hand and turns his head to force eye contact. “Or do you wanna do something about this?” Billy asks, eyes on Steve’s lips. There’s really no denying what’s happening now.

Steve presses their lips together. Billy makes a surprised noise, it reminds Steve of his last girlfriend for less than a second because then Billy’s hauling Steve into his lap and kissing him stupid.

A hand worms its way up the borrowed sweater, a thumb grazing his nipple through the shirt. Then it’s underneath, blazing hot against Steve’s bare skin. Billy rolls, pinches, tweaks, and Steve’s not thinking about anything but how fucking good it feels to be touched like this again.

He’s not thinking when there’s fingers curled in the waistband of his borrowed thermals. He’s not thinking when Billy’s starts palming his ass through his underwear, fingers pressing between his cheeks through the fabric, teasing. He’s not thinking when that hand slides over his hip. He’s still not thinking when Billy lays a palm flat against Steve and freezes.

Steve rolls his hips, and Billy’s hand doesn’t move. Only then does Steve’s mind catch up with him. Fuck. Fuck.

Billy doesn’t know. Or, well, he didn’t know. He sure as shit does now.

Billy moved to Hawkins not long after Steve did, after he’d already started hormones and was lucky enough to pass and his tits shrunk enough that binding wasn’t hell anymore. Steve got keyhole top-surgery, Billy probably didn’t even notice the little scars. And if he did, there’s like, no way he realised what they’re from. He’s got hair on his chest now. Pants on, shirt off, he passes. Easy.

Steve doesn’t do it like this. He tells them before it ever gets to this point, not during.

It feels like an age has passed since Billy’s hand stopped in place, still cupping the shape of Steve, unmoving. It’s really only been a few seconds, probably less than a minute. Steve’s mind kicks into overdrive when the anxiety hits, can burn through a lot of info really fast. Right now he’s trying to remember where all the doors are, trying to remember if the windows have locks, where his car is, his keys-

Billy’s hand presses down. The heel of his palm digs into Steve’s little half hard cock, fingers pressing into the wet spot. “Fuck, all hard and wet, just for me.”

When they were teenagers, Billy was so hot and cold it felt like a constant onslaught of whiplash. Been a while since Steve felt that.

Steve isn’t really sure what to say in this situation. Billy’s just stuck his hands down the pants of an old high school frenemy and didn’t freak out when he found a pussy instead of a dick and balls. So he doesn’t say anything.

“Can I- Can I touch you?” Billy’s voice is breathy, nervous now the rules have changed. Like he’s the one that straddled a lap and revealed a potentially dangerous secret in the middle of nowhere, like he’s the one that’s got a thumb tracing barely there circles around his cockhead through boxers.

“You are,” Steve says to the ceiling, feeling like an idiot.

Billy laughs in Steve’s ear, all husky, presses a kiss to one of many moles littering his neck. “I meant skin to skin.”

His fingers are tracing over the length of him, dragging sticky wet fabric against where he’s softest and most sensitive. Steve’s mouth is somehow dry yet full of spit, in that weird in-between place when he’s anxious. His tongue feels too big in his mouth to talk so he just mumbles uh huh instead.

Billy’s index and middle finger slip into the fly hole, dip low to gather some slick before dragging those wet callouses along Steve’s bare cock. Billy is breathing heavy, eyes trained on Steve’s face. It’s- intense. Steve has to look away, focuses instead on the sight of Billy’s hand between his legs.

“Fuck, Billy.”

Billy’s hand disappears as he turns to lay them down on their sides across the length of the couch. He hikes Steve’s leg over his hip, gets that hand in his hair and pulls his head back, all the way back, gentle but firm, ghosting his lips up and down Steve’s throat as his hand dips back inside and rubs.

“Like that, pretty boy?”

Steve pants. “Yes.”

“How about this?”

His thumb takes over, letting two fingers tease at Steve’s front hole, barely inside. Steve whimpers, rocks his hips down, feels the tips of Billy’s fingers slip inside. They gasp together. It’s been so long since Steve felt anything other than his own smaller fingers, Billy’s feel bigger than they really are.

Steve bucks onto Billy’s hand when he keeps the fingering light and exploratory. Steve wants to get fucked, wants more, wants it all. Billy curses, thrusts his fingers harder, curls them. Steve chants yes, yes, yes, fuck me, Billy.

Steve’s eyes are screwed shut, all attention focused on his body, what’s happening inside him. He feels his cock throb under Billy’s thumb. The stroking is a little off centre, not quite the right pace. It’s more than enough. Steve comes with a startled moan, clenching like a vice around Billy’s fingers. Billy groans, bites down lightly on Steve’s neck.

Usually, it’s one and done for Steve. That’s not the case tonight. Billy’s thumb is still pressing against him and it doesn’t feel like too much yet. So Steve wiggles his hips. Catches Billy’s wrist before he can withdraw his hand.

Billy’s pupils are blown so wide, there’s practically no blue left in his eyes. His mouth is hanging open just a little, pretty lips in a perfect ‘o’ shape.

Steve whispers, “Don’t stop.”

A wide smile creeps onto Billy’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“You want more, baby? Gonna come for me again?”

Steve nods enthusiastically, breathing maybe a touch too hard on Billy’s face, fingers digging into strong shoulders. “Uh huh.”

Billy uses his free hand to yank the thermals and underwear down. Steve manages to wrangle one leg free before Billy rolls onto his back, hauls Steve up the length of his body by his ass and drops him onto Billy’s face.

There’s a clever tongue lapping at him before Steve can ask what’s happening. Billy gives a sloppy blowjob. Loud sucks, moaning even more than Steve is every time he drags the flat of his tongue along Steve’s pulsing cock. He’s not afraid to get all the way in there, dragging Steve’s hips down, encouraging him to grind as his tongue slips inside.

Steve’s on another planet, Billy’s tongue curling inside him, his cock bumping Billy’s nose every time he rocks forward. His hips jerk as he comes again, faster than the first. Shorter, more intense.

He lifts his hips when it gets to be too much, Billy chases him with his slick mouth, flicking a tongue against Steve’s oversensitive cock. Steve jolts and Billy laughs.

Steve sits back on Billy’s chest, hands either side of his head, trying to catch his breath.

Billy grins up at him, smug as anything. “Always wanted to get a taste of King Steve.”

“How-“ Steve pants. “How was it?”

Billy yanks Steve’s head down, licks into his mouth. Steve groans into the kiss, tasting himself.

They break apart, Steve’s own face slick now, a little string of spit connecting them. Billy shuffles up the couch and Steve shuffles back, straddling his waist.

They just look at each other for a while, breathe the same air. Steve’s eyes are flickering between Billy’s, waiting for him to say something. It doesn’t take long.

“That wasn’t what I expected,” Billy says, pupils darting back and forth much like Steve’s. “It was better.”

Steve’s momentary panic rises and falls just as quick. Anxiety and Billy Hargrove do not mix well.

“Yeah?”

Billy wraps his arms around Steve’s slim waist, says yeah into Steve’s collarbone as he traces the length of it with gentle bites and sucking kisses.

Steve just happened to land right on Billy’s cock when he straddled him. He can feel it between his lips, rock hard through the fabric. Steve rolls his hips, revels in the groan it gets him.

“You wanna keep going?”

Billy flips them again in answer.

Notes:

Been to fucking hell and back trying to finish this. Written no less than FOUR unfinished versions of this scene. Had to stop playing with it before I started hating it, so hopefully y'all have enjoyed.

Notes:

No idea when the second part is coming, all I can say is Soon.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of 12 Days Of Harringrove