Steve had a habit of being close. The type of close where he could sit snugly beneath your ribs, enveloped by the cushioned weight of your lungs, nestled safely against your heart, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
Be it a hand in the back pocket of your jeans, the cradle of a thumb in your belt loops, or a the secure press of a palm to the small of your back, he was always there.
Steve also had a habit of trying to get closer in bed, at your most intimate, if ever possible. As if his end goal was to tie your souls into an unbreakable knot, melding into one being.
Like right now, you straddle his naked hips as his shoulders slouch forward from the headboard he leans against for support. His heated face presses to the soft juncture of your neck, and open mouthed kisses pepper your collarbone.
Your fingers meld to the roots of his hair at the nape of his neck, barely tugging, enough to make him shudder and press his lips to you that tiny bit harder.
The desolate Harrington house comes alive with the sounds of your mingled gentle panting, Steve’s bedroom an all encompassing warmth comfortable enough for a pretty mid-June night.
“You feel so good,” he mumbles into your skin, breathy moans fanning that major artery in your neck. A dreamy sigh escapes your parted lips, right at the shell of Steve’s ear, exactly where he liked them. He always wants to hear every intricate sound that unravels when you’re lost in euphoria, sounds caused by him, the delicate stitching of your very being fraying beneath his fingertips.
Steve wraps both hands around your back, taking his time to skate his fingers over the supple rolls of your flesh. One hand settles to grasp at the fat of your hip, whilst the other smooths delicately up and down your spine. A grounding, tender sort of action that had goose flesh rising beneath his touch.
“Steve,” you whisper in his ear. He was on fire, and you burned twice as hot. A pathetic sort of noise falls from his lips, absorbing into your pulsing skin. He grips you tighter, pulling you impossibly closer, nails creating crescent moons at your hip.
Steve rolls his hips beneath you, grunting as he goes, the position you’re in permitting only the smallest of movements, though his twitching cock manages to bury itself deeper and deeper still.
He shifts up whilst you grind down, glossy eyes rolling back amongst the sheer pleasure of feeling him everywhere. Steve slides his fingers from your back to trace the cage of your ribs, the feathery pressure causes you to giggle into his hairline, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. He smiles against you, turning his face to rest his cheek to your chest to hear the thump thump thump of your heart.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, nosing just under your chin. Sure, being roughed up was nice every once in a while. But sex with Steve was exactly like what you would read in romance books; delicate, passionate, engulfing. He could be meaner if you asked him to, but to be completely lost in each other this way was an entire world apart.
You were living out your very own romantic fairytale, and you never wanted it to end.
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just a little something something because I miss my steve 😩
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it really fucks me up how often house md has this message of “the love was there. just not enough.” because of COURSE chase and cameron loved each other. of course house and cuddy were in love and foreman and thirteen were in love and wilson and sam were and cuddy and lucas and house and lydia and house and stacy and taub and rachel but. it just wasn’t enough. the love was there and it matters that it was there. but it saves no one. it fixes nothing. they still move on. they still leave. somebody is always left alone in the end. EXCEPT house wilson who broke this pattern For Yaoi rasones.
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