Chapter 4: Murder Mom

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Warning(s): Slightly more adultish themes at the beginning of this chapter. Thou hast been warned.


Muted morning sunlight weakly tries to illuminate the room, but falls short as a result of the thick curtains. It's light enough to see, but dark enough to continue sleeping if I wanted to, and damn, do I want to.

Over the course of the night whilst asleep, Steve evident shuffled down the bed a little, because despite the fact the human Dorito completely and utterly dwarfs me in size, he's lowered himself enough to burrow his face into my neck, the curve of his nose perfectly leaning up against my throat. His forehead rests directly below my jawline, short cropped hair tickling my cheek. Lips breathe warm, levelled breath intimately along my skin, mouth half pressed against the light love marks left from last night's activities.

Didn't get far – we're both still clothed after all – but after cooking, baking, watching a couple movies and Steve attempting to teach me to swing dance – spoiler: it failed – it wasn't long until we were in each other's embrace again, pressed against the walls, dining table, dresser, bed. Tender moments, passionate moments, all raw. All intimate. An indescribable euphoria I once never thought possible.

Like a koala bear, the large muscled man clings to me in his sleep, right arm draped over my waist and gently grasping it, left arm underneath me. That'll be dead for a while once he wakes up and allows the blood to circulate properly again.

One of his legs is tangled between mine, half his torso covering me, the only thing between our chests being the thin fabric of our shirts. The first time we had awoken to such a position, Steve was quite flustered, being able to... feel more than usual. Like hell am I wearing a goddamn bra to bed though, if he's so freakin' uncomfortable, then he can wear the damn thing. He got over it quite quickly however, clinging to me tighter on such nights now, covering me more and more each time. One day he's gonna wake up to a Lillian Nightshade pancake, because home boy is not fucking small, or light for that matter.

Glimpsing down at the sleepy super soldier, I lift my right hand and tenderly rest it in his hair, ever so gingerly massaging and running my fingers through it. He's like a dog, I quickly discovered. Enjoys it when I rub his head, play with his hair. He gives me the unconditional love of one too.

"Mmm," the raspy morning voice of my boyfriend vibrates against my neck, through his lips and Adam's apple. A pleasant shudder runs through my body, feeling his gruff groan in my bones. Well that's not very fair.

"And so he awakens," I softly tease as a good morning, voice hushed so he can wake gradually and peacefully. "I was beginning to lose all sensation in the right side of my body, and had finally accepted my new life as a semi-paralysed pancake assassin. There might be hope yet now."

An abrupt breath of amusement tickles my neck, Steve trailing his nose up and down the centre of it, now acting particularly feline-like as he cuddles (cuddles?) up against me more firmly. "No, no hope, sorry to disappoint."

"Damn, doomed to be a half squashed pancake. Shell head is gonna kill me."

"Mm, it's okay," my drowsy boyfriend weakly assures me, one small kiss pressed against the pulse point beneath my ear. "Nothing wrong with pancakes. I used to have them when I was a kid. I like eating pancakes for breakfast."

Blood immediately rushes to my face, heat curling in the depths of my abdomen. I am one thousand percent sure he is not only too sexually innocent, but too lethargic to realise the precise implications of what he just said, and yet either way, having the unintentional double entendre spoken so huskily against my neck in such a suggestive position so early in the morning is unjustly enticing. Definitely not fair.

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