What started as a short drabble for tumblr's mcrollins au week, became a tiny obsession and now I can't stop thinking about writing more glimpses into that world. It's not a promise of a full, solid story. Most likely, it's going to be a bunch of drabbles, small scraps from that one verse.
Stacatto of the city's night sounds pulses rhythmically, the blur which mere minutes ago was muffled, lost in the breathless melody, cutting his usually sharp senses from surroundings and possible threats, limiting everything, all sensations, only to that soft body pulling him in.
There used to be a time, when Steve easily dozed off after sex, pleasantly exhausted, but for years the afterglow pulsed within him in a rush of adrenaline. Caleidoscope of thoughts, pushed aside as he pushed inside, became clearer after that last thrust, evoking the itching in his fingers, demaning to feed the need to run them over the keyboard.
It's like an instinct to hunt the topic, when he encounters it, never backing down. Chasing leads, running on pure adrenaline, until the article is finished and printed.
And he fucking loves the feeling of his whole body tingling. The blinding sparkles of orgasm still lingering, combining with the increasing flow of writer's haze. From one surge of adrenaline to the other.
His dick is still sticky wet, softened against his thigh. The warm, small hand tapping against it tenderly, as if already missing it's presence inside of her, makes him smirk.
Steve places a kiss on her shoulder, then leans over the edge of the bed and reaches across the floor for his laptop.
"You're writing again?" Catherine asks, her voice raspy, bearing hints of sleepiness.
Covering his crotch with the pillow, he settles against the headboard and places the computer on his lap. "You inspire me so much," Steve chuckles, fingers already skimming over the small, black buttons. He loves writing at night. With the yellows and blues of the city lights flickering outside the window, and the delicate light illuminating the keyboard on his laptop.
"Maybe someday that will be true," there's an edge in Cath's voice, not of regret or accusation, but a distinctive hint, which makes Steve look at her with guilt.
It was never supposed to be that way. He's always been professional, keeping his informants protected, sometimes well paid, or fed, but never crossing the line of the illusion of friendship. Then, four months ago, as he was walking circles on that God's forsaken case, Catherine Rollins appeared like a lightning. The source, who provided him with the informations and anewed deluge of vehemence.
Steve's not sure, which one of them pulled the other one into this boiling pit, but it quickly became obvious, they've gotten themselves into a very dangerous trouble.
Somehow, however, the needy, hard sex, serving them both as a valve for the heaped fear and adrenaline, became a game of some sort. Testing the boundaries, challenging, who will cave in first.
And he can't help it, even if he promises himself to. Catherine caves in so deliciously.
He likes touching her, making her compliant, as well giving himself to her. Inextricably, Steve feels, he's leading them both to doom. Especially unfolding next layers of this case, that turns out to run deeper than he initially envisioned.
Without a word, he reaches his hand and traces his fingers along Cath's arm. Up, over her shoulder, circling his fingertips around the small bitemark, which he sealed on her delicate skin. Brushing dark strands aside, Steve skimms his digits over the blue ink of tattoo on the nape of her neck, before withdrawing to caress Catherine's blushed cheek with the back of his hand.
"You determine me," he says softly, for the first time admitting it aloud, "I'm going to finish this investigation, expose them all and bring them down. And you'll be safe again."
Cath turns onto her side, the sheet falling completely off from where it was carelessly wrapped around her hips. Though not purposely, she enjoys the effect it has on Steve, noticing his gaze dropping lower for a few seconds.
"At this point, I'm not sure if I know how to live without that thrill." While the rush and excitement turned out to be too tempting for her to be reasonable and walk away, when she still had a chance, it's another part without which she fears to live.
But these words don't come out, I don't want to move on from you.
While the case is open and article nowhere near done, she can have it. The ridiculous, carefree lunches, where they flirt more than talk about the investigation, as well the exploration of their bodies, leaving hot marks on her skin - she loves it, every second of it.
"Maybe you can become an investigative journalist?" Steve grins at her, "There's always some scum to bring down."
"Nah, I'm not a writer. Never have been good with words," knowing it's a futile attempt, trying to direct this conversation towards emotional waters, Cath rolls her eyes and flops on her back. One hand draped abover her head, playing with the corner of the pillow, the other resting low on her abdomen, index finger mindlessly flicking the thin stripe of hair covered in slick and come.
"But you have an eye," he points out, keeping up with the conversation and typing at the same time, "Your photographs are great. And you're rather sneaky."
Cath only hums at that, not wanting to indulge herself in images and hopes for any what-ifs, as she doubts he even remotely means it. The compliment on her photography, maybe, but not the implication of using it in an actual investigation.
The silence spreads like a silky, delicate sheet, covering them with a surprising comfort. It's astonishing, how silence is never bothering when they're together, evokes no hint of uneasiness. There's only Cath's still slightly ragged breath, lost in the clicks of buttons, as Steve's fingers quickly move over the keyboard, and the echo of an ambulance's sirens, cutting through the streets.
Turning her head, to look at him working, Catherine can't help the increasing curiosity and excitement, itching to lean over his shoulder and drink up all the swiftly weaved words.
He's good, really good, with a talent for sharp, perfectly executed conclusions. The wit, which is still embroidered within his articles, doesn't overbear the text with the so popular nowadays tendency to drown everything in sarcasm. Steve's more pragmatic, building his compositions in a great balance between a solid, military report and a thrilling, criminal plot.
She watches his fingers gliding over the illuminated keys, surprisingly delicate. Maybe it's all the experience in writing, that makes his fingers skilful in other areas - fucking her in straight, slow pushes, then curled up demands, splashing her slick all over his hand.
"Today-" though Cath's voice doesn't quiver, she takes a second to compose herself, forcing the fear back into the tiny corner of her mind, before it overtakes her, "It was close."
The bitter taste threatens to fill her mouth again, with a renewed strength, as the memory of Steve's body rolling over the hood of the car, flashes before her eyes. He was quick, thankfully, jumping on the parked vehicle and rolling over onto the pavement, when the driver of a black SUV aimed for him with a full speed. Catherine can't remember much from it, though it happened less than five hours ago, but the pain in her chest, as she has watched him fall. According to Steve, she yelled his name.
So he made her scream it more, this time secured in his arms. Against the door, bent over the sofa, on this messy bed.
The decision to become his informant hasn't been an easy one, but she couldn't work for these people anymore. Not when she found out what happens underneath the pretty facade of charity and international cooperation. Now, when someone from Steve's coworkers leaked his newfound investigation to Cath's employers, he's been targeted. And yet, he seems alarmingly not moved by that.
"Aren't you scared?" Catherine asks quietly, eyes glued to his fingers on the keyboard, not daring to look at his face, in fear of finding there only reckless ignorance, or a dismissive smirk.
The pace of his digits seems to quicken suddenly, pressing harder against the set of delicate buttons. With a flourish, Steve clicks the dot and saves the document, then puts the laptop on the small bedside table. He throws the pillow on the floor and moves his body, stretching and pressing himself against Catherine.
"I am scared. Often," he admits sincerely, burying his face in the crook of Cath's neck. "Today I was terrified," Steve's eyes flutter close at the softest moan escaping her lips, when he traces his fingertips over her nipple, red teeth marks adorning the pinky halo like a crown. "I was scared they might aim for you too," moving his hand across, he tugs on her arm, until she rolls over to face him, breasts pressed against his chest.
"Still am," Steve rasps out, before kissing her.
The moist lips moving against his, surge a rush, which is more thrilling than any of his adrenaline-driven investigations, enticing as much as writing does.