the witching hour
He’s dreaming of sunny, warm beaches and sand-covered toes when he feels it. A tapping on his arm, the sharpness of too-long nails on his skin. Dream-you looks up at him, batting your eyelashes as you lean up.
“Steve."
"Hm…?”
“Steve.”
“I’m right here, sweetheart."
"Steve. Steve. Steeeeeeve. Stevie!”
Groaning, Steve blinks his sleep away. The ceiling is dark, though half illuminated by a dull, yellow glow from the desk lamp across the room. He inhales – perfume, sweet and slightly spicy.
“Steve,” you whisper harshly.
“Wha– what’s wrong, sweetheart?"
You shift until you’ve arched over his chest, hands splayed against his torso and eyes just as sleepy as he feels. "Uhm… Well…"
The hesitance in your voice sparks alarm in him, and he immediately finds himself sitting up, frowning down at you. "Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”
You bite your lip and grasp your hand in his, warm and soft against him, and it’s with confusion that he watches as you guide it down, down, down, below the sheets and–
Oh.
You grin up at him when he inhales sharply, fingers breaking away from your grip to explore on his own. You’re unbelievably wet, dripping down against his sheets – no clothes to act as a barrier. He had taken them all off earlier, had made love to you against these very blankets, and it looks like you’re ready to go again. At – he risks a glance over your shoulder – 3 AM.
“I’m really wet, and I think I’m gonna die if you don’t do something about it ASAP.”
Steve thinks about the mission you’re going on in exactly 10 hours. He thinks about how tired you’ll be if you stay up for much longer – he thinks about how distracted you’ll be if you don’t cum right now.
Well, he’s got no choice, does he?
“Fuck, sweetheart–” And you melt against him, sighing quietly at the deep grumble of his voice. You’re so slippery and soft and velvet-smooth, hot beneath the covers and just thrumming with energy. Just what had you been dreaming of?
He asks you just that, and you quickly turn bashful. You duck your head to the crook of his neck, panting softly as his fingers prod at your entrance. “Ngh… Not important…”
“Really?” He presses his fingers up and up until they reach that little spot that makes you gasp and writhe. “Seems pretty important if it got you drippin’ all over my sheets.”
“N-not really – oh, right there, fuck– what the fuck–!”
And you’re staring at him, livid, because he’s pulled his fingers out of you and he’s just looking at you all expectant like a teacher who’s asked you a very important question.
“What the fuck?” You say. “Please don’t make me beg, I’m too tired.”
“I’m not that mean–"
(Oh, yes. Yes, he can be, and he sees that in the unimpressed look you shoot him.)
"Tell me what your dream was about, and I’ll make you cum.”
You grunt in annoyance, very obviously torn between your need to have his hand between your legs and your own embarrassment. “But…"
"No buts, young lady.”
“God, Steve, it was your stealth suit!” You burst out, whiny. His eyebrows shoot up. “Your stealth suit. You kept it on while we fucked, okay? Apparently that turns sleep-me on.”
Now that’s an image that he likes. The idea of you, bare and wiggling against him as he takes you in his stealth suit… He understands the mess you made.
“Interesting."
"Don’t make a big deal out of it,” you huff, “The body reacts to dreams unconsciously, okay, so–"
He wants to get his hands on you again – and you want the same, evidently, because when he raises his quickly drying digits to your lips you open obediently and take them into your mouth, gently suckling around him. Fuck. The trust you place in him is almost as sexy as the act itself.
“Oh, the things I’d do to that pretty mouth.” He’s aware that he’s staring at you, mouth agape like a fool, but the sight of you is just purely and utterly erotic. “You’re so pretty, baby.”
You hum nonsensically, looking up at him in that pointed way that says c'mon, Stevie. Always so impatient. He makes a reminder to teach you a lesson in patience for the thousandth time.
“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers from your mouth. “I’ll take care of you, sweets. Don’t worry.”
“You always take care of me,” you moan softly, “Always, Stevie."
So sweet, his girl. As much as you were the sassy little brat he was so fond of, you’re just as soft as the giant teddy bear you hugged to sleep when he was away. Even your hands on his arm are unbearably gentle, nails barely scraping his skin as he circles your clit with his thumb.
Your legs twitch as his fingers re-enter you, gasps short and quick against his shoulder and chest on the brink of heaving with each breath. God, he’s good with his fingers – so thick and long inside you, almost as good as the real thing. But not quite.
Your head falls back. "Oh, f-fuck.”
“You’re close,” Steve notes, eyebrows raising. “That dream really got you wound up, huh?"
Your lips spread in a cheeky – albeit tired – smirk. "It’s you. How couldn’t it?"
"Damn straight.”
It only takes a few minutes more, really. His pace remains relentless, fingers nudging the spot inside you and thumb hammering back and forth against your clit – you’re so wet that he easily slides back and forth over the sensitive little button, and with a cry of his name and a shudder you squeeze around his fingers. And Jesus, he wishes it was around him, but not tonight.
Your toes flex back and forth, your nails pinch at the skin of his forearm – but by God, you’re fucking beautiful like this. Still half-tired and so far gone, eyes dazed and half-lidded. Nobody else got to see you like this, just him. And what an honour it is.
“Maybe I should break out the stealth suit soon?” Steve says, grinning as his fingers slip from you. You’re still panting, skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat – but you find it in yourself to scoff, slapping his arm weakly.
“Shut up."
“That’s a lot of sass for someone who ruined my bedsheets and still hasn’t apologized.”
"It’s not my fault you look good in your suit!” You argue – a whine in your throat as he rises from his bed. “Stevie, can’t we just–”
“No, no, no–” And he scoops you up, plops you on the chair across from his bed so that he can remove the sheets and replace them. “I’m not lettin’ you sleep on dirty sheets.”
“Even if I’m the one that dirtied them?” You say, smiling dopily. “You know, some would say that you let me get away with too much–”
And you yawn, eyes squinting and entire body shivering–
And yeah. Maybe he does – but he dips his head to kiss your temple and pulls you up by the wrist, watches as you snuggle back into his duvet with a wholesome smile that makes his heart swell. “I think I let you get away with just enough, sweetheart.”
“Mm…” And then your eyes snap open, zeroing in on the hardness between his legs. “Stevie! You don’t want me to–?"
"Nah. I’m good, sweets. Get on to sleep, yeah? You’ve got a big day tomorrow."
And he pulls you close and shuts his eyes: no room for argument.