in this kitchen, I thee love
husky!Steve x Reader | the frenemies little home smut
no doubt about it, your man looks good fixing up the ac in the blurry heat of summer. who are you to resist the urges?
foreword: yayyyy domestic frenemies!! please check the tags on this one folks as i tried to be thorough as possible LOL. not necessary to read the other prev parts of frenemies for this one but might b helpful. love ya <3
cw: husky!Steve, ex-frenemy Reader, galpal Robin, weed smoking, the Turn Ons of domestic work, teasing, LOTS of kissing, petnames, implied plussized Reader, R is infertile, R wears a dress (briefly) but no pronouns used, R has breasts + vagina + bush, ovulation, oral (R receiving), scent + sweat kink, fingering, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, Big Dick Harrington, unprotected PiV, breeding kink, dirty talk, intro to mommy kink, discussions of safeword/emotions around sex, brief mention of choking kink, aftercare, smut mdni
wc: 7k
Steve treats you like Jesus reincarnated.
He’s always finding an excuse to sit at your feet during house parties, always seeking the hem of your pants or the slope of your calf to stroke against like the touch alone will heal him.
He finds all your ideas important, too.
Steve will lean into the armback of the couch for an hour and pull your feet into his lap and just listen, without major interruptions and with a genuine sparkle of interest in his eyes- as if your retellings of workplace drama at the archives is the next Great Teaching.
The boy is pretty damn fantastic. Has been, for a whole year of this home you both built from the ground up.
Four seasons and the love only seems to grow and settle, roots pushing down and leaves spreading outwards to catch the sun of the feelings you share.
It is also, at times (as recounted to Robin) really disconcerting to be loved so deeply.
“The other night-” you lean from your seat on the couch to pass Robin the joint, her supine form sprawled like a lazy housecat against the newly-installed living room rug- “-I woke up and he was putting on his tie before work and he was just, like, staring at me. Smiling. As if me drooling into my pillow was the best thing he’d ever seen.”
“Jesus.” Robin fills her lungs with Munson’s Finest and breathes out, strands of strawberry gold shifting around her face as she shakes her head against the floor. “He’s a regular Bundy. Better lock up the knives at night lest you fall prey to his sickening charm.”
You poke your foot between Robin’s first and second rib. She squawks and catches at your ankle, pulling herself to a dizzy sit as you chide, “Robin. I’m serious. It’s batshit how much he loves me.”
Robin’s chin fits to your knee. She’s overly warm even in just the shirt she stole from Steve’s dresser and the basketball shorts she brought from her place for the sleepover occasion; her body heat radiates into the side of your thigh as she lifts the joint upwards as a peace offering.
“I hear ya, babe- but that’s just how Steve is. He needs someone to love a sick amount or else he’ll go insane. Like, lock-this-guy-up-in-Pennhurst type of insane.
Plus-” Robin tilts her head and looks at you like a puppy, full of wonder and incapable of deception. “You love him just as much, right? It’s even-Steven.”
She giggles at her own joke while you roll your eyes, sick with fondness and breathing out to add to the haze of indica already permeating the room. “Hilarious. Of course I do.”
And it’s true. If you’re Jesus, Steve’s some sort of Roman god brought back to life by a spell you were undeserved to cast.
You stare at him just as much. The way he moves through the world never ceases to fascinate you, even after all this time.
The boy you’ve known so long, now a man, placing a curled knuckle to his chin while he contemplates between two types of granola at the grocery store is enough to make you weep.
Maybe it will be like this until the end of time. Maybe the two of you will constantly be in orbit, stars spinning around in constant adoration until the sun burns itself to nothingness.
Or maybe Munson’s Finest is turning you into too big a sap.
Robin’s hot cheek presses insistently against your own bare thigh- your home isn’t equipped with air conditioning, yet, but Steve’s promised to work on it after he returns tomorrow from the overnight coaching duties of an away game.
“You’re not feeling weird about it because of the whole… kids thing. Right?”
It’s a fair question. You smooth a hand over the crown of Robin’s loose hair and reply, soft with honesty- “No. It’s not ‘cuz of that.”
This, too, is true.
You’ve never felt more whole as a person with Steve’s love. As much as you tried to search for a hidden agenda in the early days, the goodness and guilelessness of the way Steve loves you has always remained steady.
Robin hums thoughtfully. Lashes fluttering at your knee as she reaches for the weed again.
“Maybe you’re just not used to being loved so much. So… big.”
Everything within you wants to reject this. Something sharp rises to combat the benevolence, something ancient and habitual- until it gets worn smooth. The jagged wave cresting and falling with a hiss to the sands of your mind.
The cherry of the joint briefly lights Robin’s face as she takes another drag. She grins around the smoke that pours from her nostrils- puppy turned dragon.
“God, I’m good. I should be a shrink or something.”
You roll your eyes again but cannot find the heart to take this dream- even in jest- away from her.
“Sure, Doctor Buckley extraordinaire. How ‘bout you prescribe me some more weed?”
Robin’s grin is not deterred. She passes back the joint.
___
Steve has the air conditioner installed by Sunday afternoon.
Even at the tail end of September, Indiana is sizzling with heat. It’s 97 degrees out, Steve’s only day off this week, and yet he worked for two hours straight to get the box in working condition.
You’d taken him a chilled glass of lemonade partway through, offered your assistance even as you knew it was pointless.
Predictably, Steve had scoffed at the idea. Put his condensation-cooled hand on the back of your neck and rebuked the mere thought- Don’t want you out here in this heat.
The AC is chugging out blissfully cold air from the living room window now, a gentle promise of coating the rest of your cozy home in the fresh feeling within the hour.
Steve is sweaty when he finally comes in. The white cotton tanktop sticks to his sides, fabric near-translucent against the dark patch of chest hair and soft pudge of his stomach.
“It’s a hot one out there.”
He gives you a wink as he swings into the kitchen, a guy who’s already got the dad one-liners down from being around the Cubs all week. Beams unabashed when he catches your eyes lingering.
Not that you were trying so very hard to be subtle. What's the difference, anymore? You’ve got a beautiful boy and a lovely home and you can stare all you want, these days.
You turn back to your salad prep all the same. Focus returning on dicing red bell peppers and cucumber, fitting the edge of your knife beneath the crisp veggies to lay out on the two bowls of prepared lettuce.
Steve crowds unnecessarily close to reach for a glass in the cupboard and takes your upper arm to make sure you don’t move while the cupboard swings open. It’s thrilling to have him this near. He smells like sun-baked grass, like musky sweat twice-dried, a hint of mint shampoo.
“Thanks for doing all that,” you say, simply, while his hand is still on you.
Steve snorts. Like the sacrifice of a hot afternoon is nothing if it means cooling you and your home down.
“‘Course. Don’t say thank you. Would’ve done it anyways.” He kisses the side of your neck, then turns for the sink.
The water hisses into Steve’s glass as you pour a generous amount of ranch over his salad, arranging a lime wedge on the side. There’s cold chicken waiting in the fridge to be shredded, some leftover garlic bread to add to each plate- it’ll make a nice late lunch to tide you both over until dinner.
You’ve found a groove in food preparation, this last year; imbuing love into every meal- three times a day, plus snacks. Your fridge has stayed stocked, this summer, thanks to all the community offerings- Mrs. Wheeler’s fruit pies, a baked lasagna from the Byerses.
No doubt about it. You and Steve are nothing but loved.
Plus, it’s much easier to care about food when Steve is on the receiving end of the care. He is pleased by so little effort that a microwave bag of popcorn offering has him kissing you like some divinity of bounty.
And Steve has taken to this new rounded diet in the way of a shelter dog to regular steak dinners; he’d griped about going up a pants size exactly once, and afterwards your mouth did the talking so thoroughly it ceased to be an issue.
Jesus. You put the knife down before the flush of memory threatens to make your cutting unsteady. The salads get sealed safely away in the fridge before you prep more food, and then you budge up against Steve’s hip by the sink to wash your hands.
Steve is drinking the glass of water in messy gulps, head tipped back, adam’s apple bobbing with each pull. A droplet of water escapes and coasts down the length of his tanned neck, slipping over the cluster of moles at his throat in its rush towards the open collar of his top.
His hair has grown long again this summer. Chestnut curls lying sweat-dampened against the back of his neck, a known forest of freckles hiding beneath that call to you like a siren song.
You pick up a dishtowel and dry your hands methodically, still watching Steve as he sets the glass down and swipes at his mouth with the back of a hand. You’re worried about his sun exposure, looking carefully for a pinched brow- the first signal of an incoming migraine.
Steve’s had a bad penchant for throwing himself at trouble just to prove something. Every year that time pushes life further from that white-hot tangle of trauma, he’s been better about this self-destructive streak.
Just as you’ve been better about accepting love that feels bigger than what you deserve.
“Christ.” Steve sets the glass in the sink and turns to thunk his head against the curve of your shoulder. “I need a cigarette.”
You chuckle, then slip a hand up the contours of his back, muscles taut under a plush layer of fat, feeling the outline of every scar on the upwards path.
“No, you don’t. Just need a kiss.”
“So right,” he murmurs against your skin, in the same spot he’d kissed you just a moment ago. Lips brushing up the column of your neck, under your jaw, the bridge of his nose nudging as he inhales, deeply.
Steve’s wide palms settle against the small of your back. They bunch the fabric of your dress- a short, black, stretchy-fabric sleeveless number meant to stave off the summer weather- as Steve kisses behind your ear. Saturating your senses in the warmth and smell of him.
The flop of his hair is just beneath your nose as you pull him in closer, eyes fluttering as you inhale, too. He smells like musk and outdoors and a Fourth of July firecracker, bright and sparkling, making your teeth ache with feeling, a low heat pooling past your navel.
As if he’s reading your mind, Steve groans huskily- “God, you smell good.”
You demure, as is the routine. A silent smile pressing your cheek into the crown of his head. “It’s the lime wedges.”
“No-” he isn’t in the mood for arguing. Teeth grazing sharply at the tender skin below your jaw in admonishment. “It’s all you, baby.”
Your ears are beginning to burn with the affection and arousal that’s coursing through your veins, trying to chuckle away the feeling that only grows as Steve burrows in closer and hugs you to himself- “Christ, you really are like a hunting dog with that nose. S’like you can smell it on me.”
There is the hard line of his cock steadily filling out behind the zipper of his khaki cutoffs, throbbing against your stomach as Steve takes a shuddery breath at the nape of your neck. Inhale, exhale.
“Ovulating?”
All you can manage is a weak nod. Eyes screwed tight, fists balled at the tail end of his tanktop while Steve shuffles you back three steps to the opposing counter. Hips now resting flush against the reinforced wood edging.
“Fuck.” Steve drags his head from the comfort of your shoulder for the first time in awhile, and when you look back at him your knees nearly buckle.
It’s like whatever hormones you’re unintentionally emitting have made him feral. Honey-colored irises consumed by black-as-night blown out pupils, a fresh sheen of sweat dotted against his hairline as his chest punches up, down, eyes raking over your frame.
The attention is burning you alive. Steve begs, hips pressing forward to pin you in place- “Please, let me- let me help. Wanna make you feel good, honey- please-”
There’s a record spinning in the living room, soft jazz floating through the shared archway of the kitchen over the purr of the air con.
Steve is sinking onto the hardwood- 175 slats of hand-picked red oak.
He’s fumbling in a drawer near his knee, producing a stack of dishtowels to set against the countertop- sixty-two ceramic tiles of Cerulean Blue.
This home that you and Steve had ripped to the studs and re-built from the ground up. His presence, yours, in every square inch. The afternoon sun is diffused through the breakfast nook windows, and everything is glowing.
Including Steve.
Kissing his way up your calf, supporting your hips to help you sit on the counter, your tailbone now cushioned by the padding of the towels. Tawny hair falls over his brow as he pushes the hem of your dress up, kisses at every new stretch of skin that is revealed, the love seeping out of every pore.
He’s breathing so heavily, saturating his lungs in the scent of you. Crushing his nose to the inner plush of your thigh like he can’t bear to breathe anything else.
Eyes still fixed half-lidded on your thighs, Steve neatly tucks the end of your dress into the front of your bra by feel alone, keeping it out of the way without the need of you holding it.
You want to laugh, to joke- neat trick, Harrington- but then Steve noses a line up the front of your clothed cunt and all the tease leaves you. The feeling of his tongue against the fabric of your soaked panties is enough to have your palms flattening to the tiles, cabinets bumping the backs of your shoulders.
A warbly, wet noise leaves your lungs unbidden when Steve kisses your clit through darkened cotton. He pulls back only to peel the material from your legs, and then he’s right back to it. Staring at your bare, glistening pussy like it’s the meal he’s been waiting for all day.
Steve guides your knees over the brawny span of his shoulders, then holds fast at your bare hips.
“All this for me?”
He already sounds half a wreck. In awe and famished.
Loverboy. The word gets stuck inside your chest, thumps in time with your jackrabbit pulse that aches under Steve's tongue.
The tiles beneath are warmed to your temperature now, a river of slick joining the heat. Steve eats you out like a man starved, like a partner who’s spent his life in service of your comfort.
Your head drops backwards into the cabinets as he circles your clit with his tongue, then slides down to your entrance, testing, listening for the stutter of your breath, sinking in just a bit further.
Steve’s nails are biting into your skin and your left hand snaps to the top of his head, fingers burying themselves in his tresses when he shakes his head back and forth, a movement that has your thighs squeezing involuntarily around his jaw.
“Fuck, Steve-”
You drop your chin to your chest to watch this golden Adonis of a man intent on bringing you ecstasy. On his knees in your kitchen. Cheeks rosy, brows tilted together in pleasure and concentration just beneath the circlet of your thumb spanning his forehead.
Everything about Steve is bulging, spilling out in excess. Thick quads dusted with dark hair, shorts stretched tight around the kneeled form of them. His aching cock behind the confines of a zipper. Tanktop worn thin at the seams that struggle to enclose the barrel of his chest.
Steve’s got you held fast by the hips, still, your own flesh dimpled and spilling between the webbing of his fingers. Both hard as a pitcher to a ball, and delicate as a fist around a fresh nectarine.
A perfect study of balance and precision. Intensity and softness incarnate.
Your knees are beginning to jump closed, except they can’t, not really, barely brushing as they frame either side of Steve’s neck. You can feel the faint ring of his scarring where your legs rest, your ankles at his mid-back beginning to twist in anticipation of the drop Steve is intent on pushing you towards.
His dark eyes flick to yours. When he catches you watching, Steve moans again.
The vibrations of his noise cascade through your core, tingling outwards from the source of his lips that suck cleverly at your clit again.
Each of your muscles begin spasming in turn, spine curving and hips rolling to get the perfect angle even as Steve pulls you in closer. Your hand threads and tugs at the roots of Steve’s hair while your other stabilizes, knuckles brutally tight around the reinforced wood of the counter edge.
“Oh, fuck Stevie- like that- don’t stop-!”
Not as if Steve needs any instruction of encouragement to keep doing exactly what he’s doing. Nose buried and crushed into the bank of your downy curls it’s truly a wonder how he’s still breathing.
All you can hear is the obscene wet sounds of Steve working you to orgasm before you lose hearing altogether, everything whiting out and exploding into pleasure that spirals upwards the longer his mouth and tongue maintain that constant rhythm.
Your toes are flexed and pointed, stomach clenching in waves of spasms as Steve adds to the noise. Moaning his support with a tone so low you feel it in your fingertips.
“Fuck.” He doesn’t go far. Only for a breath and to stare straight at your cunt again with a blissed-out expression that has you sighing out his name. “Yeah, honey. You’re so fucking wet.”
“Ovulation,” you murmur, nearly childish with excuse. As if you haven’t been wet since this morning when he kissed you sweetly awake.
“Got that right.” Steve takes one hand to pull at your hip, hitching your thighs more fully onto the stretch of his shoulders while the other begins to trail two fingers through the mess of your slick and his spit. “Give me another. Please.”
The direction wrapped in a plea makes you want to cry- with relief, with gratitude, with overwhelm; it’s sometimes hard to sort out exactly why Steve has this effect on your psyche.
You do cry. A tear slips down your cheek as Steve’s middlemost fingers slip inside of the tight channel of your cunt, fucked open by his tongue already so there’s no feeling of intrusion.
Steve’s thick digits slide in past the first knuckle, the second; he pushes his cheek into the plush upper part of your thigh so he can watch with rapt attention as his hand coaxes you open further.
“God, Steve. Feels so- so fucking good-”
The pads of his fingers hook towards himself, brushing that spot within you as yielding as ripe fruit. Your breath kicks up again but Steve is slow, patient, not in any rush. Takes his time fucking you on his fingers, watching the show made just for him.
Your body has always found a home for Steve. With Steve.
Three fingers is a welcome stretch, the angle fitted to your body in just the right way, like he’s drawn a map in his mind and can find the treasure every time.
It’s mere minutes before Steve has worked you up to that edge again, his breath panting out into the curve of your pelvis as he pistons his fingers faster, pressing kisses and murmuring into your skin.
“That’s it, baby. Taking my fingers so good. Let me give you another, hm? Just like that- oh, fuck, yes. There you go.”
His nails bite hard into your hip the second time you come, teeth leaving imprints at your thigh like he can’t hold himself back this time. You follow suit, jaw dropping open and loosing a wail that seems appropriate to Steve’s prize as your own nails sting sharply at his scalp.
Steve doesn’t mind. The pain seems to spur him on more, if anything.
He gets to his feet after one last kiss to your cunt but keeps his fingers in you, slightly wobbly until his legs bump against the cabinets and your knees can loop around his hips.
“That was so fucking hot,” Steve grits out, between kisses that smear your own slick back onto your tongue. He reaches his clean hand to wipe the single tear at your jaw, lovingly. “You’re so beautiful. Fuck. Y’sounded so pretty. Nearly creamed my jeans.”
“You mean your khakis.” It’s a miracle you’ve still got speech. Dizzy in the aftermath, your arms raise to encircle Steve’s shoulders, whimpering when his fingers withdraw from the warmth of your cunt.
Steve looks thoroughly fucked out. Hair sticking in multiple directions, chin shimmering with spit, cheeks rosy like he’s been in close proximity with a campfire.
He kisses you again and his hips roll forward, cock that is surely aching by now pressing into the countertop between your legs, his hands running up the length of your sides to help divest you fully of your dress.
You’re thankful you had the foresight to wear a respectable bra, a black one with delicate lace trimming. Steve looks like he’s witnessing the Grand Canyon at sunrise for the first time.
“God…” His forehead tips into the valley of your cleavage. Ribs bellowing in with the breath he takes of your skin.
The courtesy of unzipping his shorts falls to your hands, steady enough now to complete the task; Steve kicks them aside along with his black briefs and you coo at the sight that greets you.
The head of his cock is flushed plum. White beads of precum oozing down the fat length as you take one finger to indulge in the mess.
Steve gives a full-bodied shudder at the feeling, hissing through his teeth and enclosing your wrist after just a few seconds. “Ah- all right, enough. If I’m not in you in the next minute I’m gonna lose my shit.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” you murmur, arms back around Steve while he lines up.
All the breath is pushed from your lungs as he begins to slowly, carefully, push into you.
You’re so wet and so ready for him that it feels like your being has been worked up all it could have been to take him but still, still, the stretch and the size of him is so intense. So all-consuming.
There’s no room for air or talking or even thought as Steve bottoms out, resting his hips in the cradle of yours, arms dropping low around your back to hold you in place. He kisses at your hairline, whispers hoarsely that you’re doing So fucking good and encourages Breathe, baby, as he waits out the rhythms of your body.
His cock is throbbing inside the tight sleeve of your pussy; you can feel every tick and pulse of his heartbeat, joined to you by every point of contact. Every time he pants into the side of your neck, every time he strains to keep his hips still- you can feel it inside.
Steve’s chest hair tickles through the deep neck of his shirt and your heels dig into the base of his spine as you whine, getting a fistful of the longer strands of hair at the back of his neck, soothing away the sweat with your palm.
“Please, Stevie, please- please move-”
Steve has a very hard time saying no to you. Even when he probably should.
He starts gentle, with these small, forward rocking motions that make the muscled walls of your cunt clench. Thick cockhead dragging against that spot that he’d been hooking with his fingers earlier.
The movements devolve in control pretty quickly. Soon the only noises are the squelch of your slick getting fucked back and forth, the punched-out sounds that leave your mouth with every smack of his pelvis, and the groans that Steve makes through the cage of his teeth.
His hips stutter, going sloppy as the cross of his hands at your back tilt and lift your hips for a new angle. The feeling of his cock is so deep, your spine arches again, hanging on with every ounce left of your strength, head tipping back against the cabinets again in undiluted bliss.
You feel one of Steve’s hands slip to the front, between the sticky crush of your bodies to fit its wide palm over the low pouch of your stomach. He pushes down with just the right amount of pressure to make you seize up, everywhere, legs snapping to a fierce tighten at his sides as you gasp.
Steve’s clenching his teeth again. If you had a free hand you’d brush over his jaw to remind him to loosen it, but most of your occupation currently is holding on.
“It’s okay, Steve-” the words are punctuated out of you with every thrust. Wet slaps interspersed between the sapped tone of your voice. “You- can say- it. S’okay. I like it.”
Steve’s face crumples like your permission is law. Cock jolting as he swears a vicious blue streak against the side of your neck. Thumb sweeping over the dip of your navel, keeping the force steady.
“Fuck. Fuck. Gonna- gonna knock you up. Put a baby in you. Fuck you ‘til- ‘til you can’t walk-”
Sweat prickles at the small of your back. Your mouth drops open in another moan and Steve chases the noise with another calculated couple of thrusts to the spot that makes your knees feel jellied.
“Shit, honey- yeah- like that, takin’ me so good- you like when I- fuck- when I fuck you this deep? When I- when I come in you?”
“Love it.” The words are barely choked out.
Steve’s really putting his ex-swim captain’s lungs to good use.
The flat of his hand stays at your low belly while his thumb reaches to draw fast, messy circles over your clit. Everything starts to get hot again, the flush of a new orgasm rising from the tips of your pointed toes to the tops of your ears.
Steve starts begging you to come. Voice shattered with lust and wanting. “Please, baby, please- you first, angel, c’mon- know you can do it- that’s it- oh, fuck-”
Couldn’t say no to him if you tried. Much easier, simpler, to just give into the flow.
Your spine fully arches, hard nipples through the fabric of your bra grazing against the dense thicket of his chest hair. The noise that comes out of you is involuntary, more ripped from your lungs than any real effort to sound a certain way.
Steve watches every second of your cresting pleasure. Molten eyes taking it all in.
He keeps working you through the peak of it with his thumb, dropping his hips slightly and angling upwards, intent on sending the shockwaves through your system for as long as possible.
The pleasure of it is so acute you’re crying, again, tears leaking from both eyes as your body begins to go limp and lax, hands beginning to slip from the safety of Steve’s shoulders.
He’s propping you up now, using the bulk of his own body to keep you steady. One hand sliding up your back to rest at the base of your neck- the other, tacky with your cum, back to gripping your hip.
Steve is desperate for release. Even as he murmurs at your tears, even as he kisses them away, you can feel the enormity of his desire with everything you have left to give.
“I’m okay,” you whisper, because you are. Steve’s holding you up and kissing you and there’s nothing better in the world.
You’re a mess of hormones, reeling with the force of multiple raptures, and still. Still. Your feet are crossing at the ankles, beckoning Steve to keep going. Keep taking what he needs. To be just a little selfish. He’s more than deserved it.
Strands of Steve’s hair cling to his forehead in flat, messy swipes. He’s panting the way a marathon runner does when the finish line has come into sight.
“Please, honey- please- can I-” His hand leaves your hip, love-drunk clumsy at the cup of your bra. “Need to- wanna see you, all of you- please-”
In a haze yourself- weak with the spike, fall, and new flood of euphoria that’s beginning to build once more- you manage to slip the left strap from your arm.
Steve’s mouth immediately latches onto your exposed nipple. His hips jolt forwards at the new contact and you moan, brokenly, everything feeling hot and tight and so, so sensitive. Nerve endings alight with his touch, his tongue that flicks and pulls just as cleverly as when he ate you out.
Steve sucks properly hard. Cheeks hollowing with the force of it. The tip of his tongue playing over the peak in a way that makes your stomach clench.
He’s holding you in place, cock still nudging at that spot inside of you that’s stoking the embers of another orgasm. Your hand slips back into the forest of his roots and you think, delirious, He should grow it out even longer. Give you even more of a handle to press his face further into the fat of your breast.
Your skin is muffling Steve’s whines; they buzz through the soft tissue and straight to your heart, the pulse of your clit.
“Good boy…”
It’s a sentence of dreams. Of gauzy quality. Mostly an accident until you speak it into being, and you realize just how right it feels to say it.
Steve is a good boy. So good.
Fucking you so well and making you feel so good and you’re cradling his head to your chest while he picks up the tempo again. Sucking so intently on your breast as if something will come of it other than simply your mind-numbing pleasure.
“Good boy,” you whimper out, again, the cant of his hips and thickness of his cock distilling your words into pure truth.
The rhythm stutters, shivers; you pet behind Steve’s ear with your thumb and whisper his name, embers whipped into a wildfire.
Steve warbles out around a mouthful of your breast- “Fuck, mommy-!”- and this is what tips you both over the edge into oblivion.
There’s nothing but warmth as you come for the third time, hot all over, a fever that can’t be burned away. Steve’s cock is spurting more of that feeling deep inside, set ablaze by the anchor of his teeth at your nipple. Sweating and seething and awash with the feeling, same as you.
The five senses, return, slowly. Steve’s lips at your jaw. The timber of his low concern at your ear. A track of his hands- up your bare sides, cupping your cheeks.
“M’okay.” You manage to slur through the fog of aftermath.
Your hips are beginning to ache from the set of wideness it takes to accommodate Steve’s brawn, but the faint pain doesn’t stop you from pulling him in towards yourself as much as possible. Lashes fluttering against the contours of Steve’s cheek as he holds you, cuddling in as close as the cabinets will allow.
The record in the other room clicks to a stop. It’s a little bit funny so you giggle, sleepiness pulling at the corners of the sound.
The curve of Steve’s smile gets buried in your neck. His thumbs are sweeping gently along the muscles of your low back. There’s a steady trickle of cum- yours and his, mingled- dripping between the gathering of your bodies.
You’ll apologize for the mess later. Unwilling to give up feeling the length and mass of Steve bodily against you. The current of his ribs helps you breathe in, out, modeling proper oxygen saturation in the aftermath of deprivation.
Though these quiet moments don’t feel deprived of anything. There is so much emotion, so much love and gratefulness and saying things without words occurring that you don’t feel depleted, at all.
Steve breathes a long sigh, and there’s something shaky about the tail end of it.
“Shit. That was… I’m sorry.”
He sounds so young when he apologizes. Like the shame is a blanket he’s given up on fighting.
“I should’ve asked you. Before I said… that.” He continues into the side of your neck. Voice pale with worry.
You pet down the length of his spine, as far as you can reach around the considerable size of his trapezius. Wondering how to approach the conversation when your finer thinking skills have been left behind fifteen minutes in the past.
Steve has always been very careful, when it comes to your feelings. Sometimes you think he’d prefer to feel your feelings for you- not in a toxic, controlling way. Just in the way of someone who never wants a bad thing to happen to the one he loves the most.
You consider it a huge improvement that Steve took a risk. And also, very hot that he wasn’t able to hold back this part of himself.
“It is really, honestly okay,” you settle on saying. Hand still stroking tenderly at any part of him that you can reach. “I’d tell you if it wasn’t. Just like the dirty talk about knocking me up and stuff- it’s all playing pretend. Saying things because they’re hot, not because they’re real.”
You’re not sure if this makes sense or if you need to say more until Steve breathes another sigh. This one is closer to relief.
“And you- and that’s why we have safewords.” He’s still speaking into the curve of your neck like it’s a secret. Like he’s trying to piece together what exactly happened for himself.
“Yeah. Exactly.” Your thighs squeeze around Steve’s midsection, a small assurance. “You did so good. You checked in and made sure I was okay and I promise, I am. More than okay, actually- jesus, Steve. That was so fucking hot.”
Steve finally lifts his head from the hiding and you can see the blush that begins to spread across the bridge of his nose and cheeks- raspberry pink paired with the downturn of a bashful smile.
“You’re one to talk. Made me come so hard I thought I was gonna hit the ground.”
You’d be here all afternoon and well into the night if you wanted to indulge in post-sex compliments. You smile back and shake your head, woozy but equilibrium fast returning; Steve dips to press one last kiss to the top of your breast before pulling the strap of your bra into place.
It’s a sweet gesture but he shouldn’t bother- nearly everything on your body is covered in a fine layer of spit, sweat, or cum. Your bra needs washing and so does your body, so does Steve’s-
he seems to think the same. Still inside you, softening but unwilling to fully separate, he asks- “Feel like some dinner? We can wash up, I can order some pizzas to go along with those pretty-lookin’ salads you made.”
Steve looks slightly abashed at having sprung a midafternoon fuck without immediate sustenance waiting (not that you’re complaining about the surprise). He finds cooking burdensome and aims to relieve you of those duties- even though you genuinely enjoy making food for the both of you, and Steve’s made sure you’ve never touched a dirty dish in the last full years of partnership.
Mind as well have the ready-to-bake lasagna for a late lunch instead of dinner. You pat Steve’s cheek and smile, mildly. Taking the opportunity for a taunt as it rises.
“I’ll fire up the oven for some reheating. Let mommy serve you, hm?”
“Jesus christ.” Steve rolls his eyes, blush deepening, embarrassed but not enough to tone down the bitchiness in his voice. Hands squeezing just a touch mean at your hips. “Cruel. You ever gonna let me live that one down?”
It feels like the old days, when you were both suffocating in crushes and teasing each other except now, there’s no biting undercurrent. No harsh edge or caustic tilt meant to keep the other at arm’s length.
Now, you have the luxury of calling Steve yours, your boy; you get to push the flop of auburn hair at his temple back into place and laugh while knowing the humor doesn’t hurt.
“Nope.” Your pointer finger trails down to alight on the twin moles that dot his left cheekbone. One of your favorite spots. “But don’t worry. I won’t snitch.”
The shade of Steve’s expression falls serious for a moment. Unconsciously leaning into the pad of your fingertip. “Y’know, we could always do something you want to try. Offer’s on the table since I kinda- uh. Threw you a curveball today.”
“You know I don’t understand sports metaphors.” You huff, head tilting back into the cabinets to assess Steve’s face as he assesses you right back. “And maybe you could try choking me out a little next time.”
You know you have him with this. It’s evident in the way his cock, still within the hypersensitive clench of your walls, kicks at the words. The look that rolls like a thunderclap across his face.
Totally worth it.
Steve chokes and stammers, tacky skin separating as he begins to pull away, fighting the rising current. “Fucking christ- all right- no. No. We have to eat. And shower. You’re- you are such a goddamn tease.”
“I’m not even teasing,” you say, through your peals of giggles. Wiggling your hips meanly, earning yourself a smack to the thigh before Steve finally pulls out.
Steve is so agreeable and forgiving and easy-natured that he still kneels, after all of that, and uses the last clean dishtowel to wipe carefully between your thighs. Gives the tops of your knees a kiss each on his way up and kicks the used towels into a neat pile, along with all the previously discarded clothes that he’ll wash later.
Steve helps you down from the counter and it’s a certain type of magic, the way the color in his irises begins to return. Pupils shrinking into normalcy like the calm after a storm.
His hands are on you again. Stable at your hips, making sure you can take a few steps unassisted before nodding with attentive approval. “I’m gonna get you some Advil to take with food. And an ice pack, if you need it to sit on?”
There’s that sex educator doctrine kicking into gear. Even with the all-star oral and fingering you open, meticulous prep work can’t change the simple fact that Steve is big. All over.
You’ll gladly take some pain meds to ward off the stiffness in your hips but that’s the worst of it. Steve has tended to you, preemptively taking care to make things easier on your body, and it’s paid off.
In about thirty minutes, you know you’ll both be starving. Right now you’re too full-up on love to really feel the hunger pangs but the dropoff in hormones usually makes for a delayed reaction in ravenousness.
So you set the oven to preheat, and Steve wraps himself around you again like he was made to be there. Chin dropped to your shoulder, palms spreading to the spot below the soft give of your stomach where he’d pressed earlier.
“You’re a genius,” he murmurs, low at your ear. In reference to the pasta idea, or maybe the simple act of turning on an oven.
You consider making a quip about the complications of the oven dials making you akin to Sally Ride but Steve is so earnest in his praise it seems only fit to accept this. Placing your arms atop his and letting him nuzzle into the side of your face while you idly watch the temp numbers begin to climb.
Secretly, you love how clingy Steve gets after sex. It makes you feel less strange about feeling the same; less puzzled by the remarkable, bone-deep feeling of still wanting to be near him even after all that closeness.
The heat from the kitchen won’t matter in about twenty minutes- enough time for the new AC to suffuse the whole downstairs. Steve and you will shower under a cool stream, then sit on the couch wrapped in fluffy bath towels for the evening reruns of Cheers.
Steve will steal the extra garlic bread from your plate that you’ll have left there on purpose for him. A practice as familiar as Sunday TV dinners and cuddling.
To make a quip about Steve’s measure of your intelligence- however inflated it may feel- would be a disservice to the way Steve loves you. Every day, without fail, in a thousand different ways.
You lean further back, letting him take some of the weight from your stretched-out joints. When you sigh, it’s of deep contentment.
“Thanks. Love you. Always.”
afterword: thanks so much for reading!! if you liked this fic, please considering reblogging. it's the wild west out here for tumblr writers and rb's are our lifeblood. MUAH
