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[TW] Can't keep my hands to myself; I want it all, @STEVE ROGERS
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Oct 19 2016, 07:12 PM
The word 'obsession' was one that Carrie had been exposed to more times than she had ever cared to keep count of. It was a word that had been used to describe her fixations, regardless of how inaccurate a term it was, if you asked her. Carrie hadn't ever viewed herself as an obsessed individual; obsessive behaviours leaned more towards mental illness and Carrie was as fit as a fiddle as far as she was concerned.
Obsession however... it was a continuous thought. A plaguing, invasive urge that consumed everything there was to consume until all that was left was an action that needed to be carried out, whatever that action might be. It was like OCD: you needed to knock three times but something was keeping you from that third knock and nothing — not your mind nor your body — could rest until you could get that third knock in.
Your mind fixated. You can't think of anything but the need and the desire to give yourself that one little thing you've been craving. The familiarity of completion, the tranquility finality. Just one more hit of that drug you've been denying yourself for just a little too long.
While many chose to fixate on that one aspect of her very complex personality, the truth was there were many layers to Carrie that few knew existed. A past she would still dwell on, enemies she held strong grudges towards and loves that hadn't deemed her worthy enough for exclusivity nor mutuality. A great many things drove her need for both love and acceptance, there was no denying that; Carrie still had a void that seemed unable to be filled, at least not completely. Temporarily, at times... but when the glass was only half full, the remaining space was nothing more than room for fears and anxieties to creep in, reminding her that without love she was nothing more than numb. Numb and alone.
She refused to be alone and was more than determined to find that one great love that would accept all of her wrong-doings and care for her the way she felt she deserved to be cared for. Her lover would be strong, aggressive, firm... but he would also have a softer side to himself that he hid from the world, one that she would nurture and care for.
That emptiness had been picking at her for days like fingernails to a scab that was trying its hardest to close. She needed something; she found herself missing those flickering connections she had been making here in New Orleans as a direct result of that. There had been a few males she had found interest in but her commitment to them hadn't crossed a couple of scattered conversations here and there; could you really miss something you barely had? Yes, you could. Yes, she did.
A chemically balanced being would have admitted a failure to use a front door was because they either didn't have a key, or didn't want to be caught breaking and entering but that wasn't the way that Carrie's mind worked. She wasn't using the front door because Steve — from what she had gathered — had roommates and she didn't want to wake them. She was being considerate, wasn't she, to think of them before herself? To put the people that he cared about into priority most others would have selfishly skipped over?
He had left his window open for her; a clear invitation. She hadn't expressed she would be stopping by so late that evening — or was it morning now... — but he had known. He had felt it. He had felt that she was craving the closeness she knew he had experienced from the first moment the two had connected. There was excitement there, knowing he'd be so surprised to see her... to see just how attentive she was...
Not having a key often meant that Carrie had to worry about security, but with Steve that wasn't an issue. She was easily able to climb through the open window as if she had done it a hundred times. Perhaps she had, but this was her first time entering Steve's home at all, let alone this way.
He was asleep, something that she had taken notice of the moment she was able to right herself after entering through the window; the moment her feet were on his bedroom floor, it was as though she belonged there. It was as though this was their room. Every movement was as casual and as seemingly welcome as it could possibly be. The way she took her black high heels off and placed them next to a chair in the corner nearest the window. The way she unfastened the belt of her dark green peacoat so that it could be shrugged off and draped across the seat of that same chair. Even her attire — nothing more than a white negligee (or a nightie, as she'd simply refer to it as) — screamed that she was very much at home there, especially given the fact that that was as far as the layers of her clothing went.
The bed didn't so much as shift as her weight joined Steve's. She was still next to him; her eyes fixated on his sleeping face as her head rested on the pillow next to him. There was a half an hour spent simply observing the way he slept... That steady rise and fall of his bare chest, the small attempts to re-position himself more comfortably every now and again, the warmth that practically radiated from his side of the bed...
She was content there next to him. She belonged there. She was as much his as he was hers and it was that thought that had her wanting to care for him in ways no one else would so long as she was around.
The redhead shifted slightly, moving her body closer to his as her fingers touched the warm, bare skin of his chest. To feel that warmth for herself... Her fingertips practically tingled as they trailed over every line of every muscle she could find there. Slowly, gently, as not to wake him. Memorizing him was for her and her alone and, as her fingers ceased their exploration of his chest, her lips took over an exploration of his neck. Softly brushing against the scruff that would surely be shaved away in the morning before small kisses started placing themselves over each inch of skin she wanted to claim as her own.
Her mouth sucked gently, pulling at the skin slowly — either with her teeth or between her lips; sometimes she alternated between the two — before her tongue lapped the areas almost soothingly. Her fingers found new territories to roam as they traced that happy little trail from his belly button and downward, skimming over the waistband of whatever he wore beneath the sheets. She hadn't felt with her legs to see if it were sweats or shorts but either were easy obstacles to overcome or work around entirely.
She nipped at his ear as her fingers dipped just below the waistband, her slender body vacating the spot next to him as she swung one leg carefully over his body until she was straddling just over him - neither thigh touching his body and her weight hovering over him rather than resting on him. Her chest was brushing against his for a brief moment as she leaned in to flick her tongue over the same earlobe she had been teasing prior to her change of position. "I love you..." Whispered words hot against his ear as her lips trailed back down his neck and his chest until she was positioned upright above of him once again; the comforter that had been covering them both slipping down her back and pooling onto his legs as she did.
Carrie scooted herself back a bit further so she was hovering more over his thighs than anything. Her eager hands tugging down the waistband she had been fixated on so slowly, she felt as though she were teasing herself more than her partner. The material of clothing remained on and remained intact; her hand gripping his length was the first time her body made contact with his save for her lips and fingertips' brief exploration not that long ago.
He was warm and heavy in her hand but fortunately, she didn't have to worry about trying to avoid waking him at this point. She wanted him to wake only to see her barely dressed and willing to do anything and everything to take care of him... She wanted him to feel her already working to please him. Maybe she had been a touch too anxious for that moment... The butterflies in her stomach had her gripping him tighter as she stroked him from base to tip, ensuring he felt the warmth and the smoothness of her hand as she scooted herself back up so that she could lower her body to rest on his upper thighs. Her own thighs — warm and bare — were being used to her - and his (as far as she was concerned) advantage as she let his shaft graze against them while she held him at the base only to grip him again to stroke from base to tip and back again. Continuously switching from her talented strokes to teasing him against her smooth inner thighs to see which would be most effective in pulling him away from sleep...
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Oct 20 2016, 12:27 AM
Every once in a blue moon, Steve was granted a happy dream.
That wasn't to say all Steve had to contend with during the witching hour was nightmares. Usually he simply didn't dream. Though he slept little, it was not because of the usual issues that affect insomniacs; all his body needed was a few hours before it was fully recharged and ready to go once again. During that time, he often slept deeply, and with a profound stillness, but he did not dream—or if he did, he did not remember them. It was both a blessing and a curse in this respect. Those dreams he recalled were the ones he was woken up during. As we are wont to wake during nightmares, that did mean those were the ones most often recollected, but it was such an overall rarity as to be statistically insignificant. And a dozen nightmares was vastly outweighed by a remembered good dream. Those were the ones he treasured, the ones he held onto.
Mostly these dreams were simple. Afternoons spent with his mother making homemade ice pops full of fruit while fans whirred in their sweltering apartment in Brooklyn. Childhood field trips to museums, where he stood in awe of the giant dinosaur skeletons and the sepia-hued heroes of wars long past. Occasionally, a rush of wind, flanneled-adorned arms, and a deep laugh he always took to believing was his father, lifting his three-year-old frame high into the summer sky.
And then there were the dreams of Ashley.
Tonight, he was granted one he wasn't even sure was a real memory, or something fabricated from the detritus of his life, but he didn't care. It made him smile a little in his sleep, just enough to twitch up the corners of his mouth, and his breathing deep and slow out of sheer contentment. In his dream the pair were tangled together beneath a cerulean sky, stretched out on a blanket salvaged from Ash's parents' garage. Ash had pulled Steve half on top of him, and his warm, strong arms laid across Steve's stomach in a way that had always, always made Steve feel protected. When they were like this, nothing could get at him: not pain or fear or anger. And he could feel Ash's heartbeat beneath his back, steady and true. They would laugh, they would joke; Steve would listen to Ash's stories, looking up at him with as dopey an expression as has ever been seen on a man in love. Eventually they would get quiet. And Ash would begin to kiss him, pressing his lips to Steve's neck, until Steve couldn't take it anymore and rolled over to meet that questing mouth with his own.
In his sleep, dreaming this dream, Steve did not move much while his unknown (and soon to be unwanted) visitor laid beside him. Limbs shifted here and there, but his sleep was not interrupted in the slightest by the new-found presence in his bed. And Carrie's own actions matched those of his dream; his body did not reject them, but grew warmer and more flushed under her hands, fooled by the correspondence with the all-too-real images playing in his head. It was not until her hands began to move south that a little wrinkle appeared in his forehead, unable to rationalize the juxtaposed dream with the actual situation, but he was reluctant to let go of this rare good moment. So when his visitor straddled him, he still didn't awaken.
Then she pulled down his sweats. And though his eyes did not open, he let out a sound that was actually of discontent—but enough like a moan to be mistaken. His breathing hitched when her hand touched him, and then gripped him; he began to stir beneath her, his hands winding in the sheets as consciousness began to come back to him. His eyes did not open, not yet. But it was coming.
Arousal does not always correspond with want. While still half asleep, Steve's body was happy to react accordingly to the actions being performed upon it. He grew hot and hard, not because he desired, or, hell, was even aware of what was being done to him, but because she was doing it when he had no defenses. And he let out a low moan not because he enjoyed the sensation, but because he was being yanked from the deepest part of sleep by what had become completely unfamiliar in the months since Ash had died on him.
Eyelids fluttered. One hand twisted in the sheets for a moment. He tried to stretch—and met resistance.
He awoke fully then, coming to an alert state like a rubber band snapping back into place. Blue eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly; he could see the decidedly female figure hovering over him, but even if he couldn't, there was no mistaking the pressure of her hand around his length. This was why he didn't immediately throw her off of him; he could, and could throw her through the wall in the same toss while he was at it. But she had a hold on him, and that would hurt him. And while he wasn't one of those men to so dearly cherish their own dick as to treat it like a fragile piece of crystal, he was entirely aware of how disabling that kind of hurt would be if he needed to deal with this intruder.
Then a deep-rooted feeling of nausea set in, and he stopped thinking logically. Because the cold reality of this moment was that Steve had not let this woman in. He couldn't make drunken decisions, because he couldn't get drunk. And he was still faithful to Ash, or at least to Ashley's memory. Which meant that this woman had chosen to come on to him, and how she had got in, and how long she had been there, and why she was even in his bedroom were all questions he had no answer for. His gaze flicked to the still-open window, knowing one of those queries was more easily answered than the others; then looked back at her, still stroking him. All this thought had happened in the span of a few seconds—he wasn't even sure she had had the time to realize he was no longer sleeping.
One of his hands shot out and seized the one holding onto him. His grip on her wrist was likely to the point of pain, though he did not mean it (even if he should); the other hand reached down to try to cover himself as soon as, and if, she decided to let go of him. He felt sick that he was reacting positively to her; the adrenaline kept him that way, and his arms, chest, and face were crawling with a sudden urge to go scald his own skin.
It was taking all his self control not fling her, even if that was what he wanted to do. Someone like this probably wasn't sane; that had to be the case, because no other answer he could think of made the slightest bit of sense.
"You need to get off of me now. I won't ask again"
A victim, still lying in bed, completely motionless
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Oct 22 2016, 12:19 AM
The sounds that Carrie heard falling from Steve's lips were like little motivations that encouraged her to keep pleasing the man that she was giving herself to totally and completely. He wanted this and he wanted her, there was no doubt about that in Carrie's mind. He was adoring every kiss, every stroke... and he was going to be grateful to have a woman like her in his life and in his bed. How many men had women that were willing to go above and beyond to please them like this, after all? Not many.
She was able to see his hands winding in the sheets around him which she took as his hands gripping the bed sheets in pleasure; it wasn't the noises he made or the way his hands moved that had her knowing he was enjoying this, but rather the way his body was responding to her soft strokes. He was hard for her, just like she knew he'd be.
The stretch he tried for was mistaken as him pressing himself into the careful strokes that Carrie had been offering him. A small smirk touching her plump lips at the thought. One of his hands grabbed tightly onto her wrist which had her mouth falling open both in shock and from the pain of his grip but her smirk only seemed to grow. "Mmm, you like it rough, do you?"
Carrie could feel his other hand reaching down; in reality, it was in an attempt to get ready to cover himself but Carrie was convinced he was wanting to touch her the same way she was touching him. That was why her other hand — the hand that wasn't still gripped tightly around his shaft — was reaching for it. Her fingers wrapping around his as she dragged his hand up her smooth bare thigh, forcing him to press his fingers deep against her skin, almost as if she were trying to encourage him to hurt her by leaving marks there. "You can be rough with me... You can do whatever you want. You can call me filthy names... hit me..."
His words, however... There was a part of her that knew his words had stung her more than she cared to admit, but another part of her — a much less sane part of her — was willing to cover that sting up. He didn't want to let his guard down and expose a vulnerability he likely preferred to keep to himself by letting her in like this. She'd show him that it was okay to rely on someone... to let someone in. She'd show him that his life would be better with her in it.
He might not want to listen to reason if he was feeling defensive, but Carrie knew that if she just had one moment to reason with him, that she'd be able to turn this all around. She didn't' like the thought of lying or tricking him into seeing that, so she didn't let herself think that her words were dishonest. No, they held some truth...
"You'll have to let go of my wrist if you want me to get off..." Because she fully intended to get off just as soon as she got him off...
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Oct 29 2016, 09:23 PM
One day, when Steve was about eleven, he had come in from the street with a black eye, a bloody nose, and a split cheek. His mother had reacted as mothers are wont to do, with exclamations of indignation and concern, before hurrying him into the kitchen for ice and bandages—then told him to take a seat the kitchen table so she could fix him up. Sarah Rogers, like her son would later be in life, was a trauma nurse, and could handle most of the childhood injuries that would send many parents scurrying to the nearest emergency room (she was also a Stitch, but Steve couldn't recall a single time when her skill—not even on him—so it was a moot point). Mrs. Rogers was also usually adverse to taking her son into the doctor unless she absolutely needed to; a single, impoverished mother supporting her sickly son with mediocre benefits and a general distrust of authority meant she never stretched the wallet farther than she could help it, and never paid a single bill on credit. Especially not medical ones.
Later, Steve would realize that Sarah had been trying to protect him. Medical offices, for example, leave paper trails, and paper trails meant Division might have found him. But at the time, young and obviously reliant on the only stable thing in his life, he had believed she did all these things because of their near-constant, desperate situation. Later, it would make much more sense; as a child, he only knew what she told him. And so he assumed, and felt a little bad for, all the lengths Sarah was forced to go to in order to keep him in one piece.
With her first aid kit (full of extra things purchased or pilfered from work), his mother was usually able to suture him up, and ease the pain long enough for him to get over it. That day, the cheek had needed six stitches. Though not deep, it was impressively long and would scar badly unless the edges were brought together, and they had run out of liquid stitches the other week. Quiescent and drowsy under her steady hand—Steve hardly ever cried out in pain if he could help it—he had been startled when Sarah's sorrowful voice permeated the tired fog in his fight-scrambled brain.
"Sometimes I wish you knew how to be afraid, Stevie."
Watery blue eyes widened as Steve turned a little to glance at his mother. If he moved too much, he knew he would disturb the act of stitching him up, so the look he gave her was more reproachful than he intended. But she wasn't really looking at him, which was fortunate; for a long moment the only sound was the ceiling fan rocking slightly with each slow revolution.
His mother had sighed softly, a wisp of her brown hair escaping the ponytail she usually kept it in. Her expression was beyond Steve's understanding to read, but he definitely didn't miss the sadness in her voice. He stared at the floor, shoulders hunched, while she went on. "I just mean—I wish you wouldn't always fight. I'm proud of how brave you are every day. But sometimes I wish you wouldn't always get into it these scuffles with other people all the time. It hurts me to see you hurting. That's all, okay?"
Steve had mumbled a reply. Maybe it had been an affirmation. Maybe it hadn't. They would never have that conversation again; as a result, the lessons that permeated his psyche were the ones she had repeated like mantras and prayers: 'always get back up, always stand up', 'be good to others even when they're not good to you', 'be strong, my brave boy'. Not this one. It was forgotten as soon as the gash healed, and the black eye faded; shoved under the bed with the dust and cobwebs.
Steve could be afraid. His biggest fears centered largely around the deaths, losses, and agonies of loved ones. Open, empty stretches of desert roads and abandoned buildings made him cautious. He did not like to be confined, and he feared the future as much as anyone. However, perhaps the fundamental link missing that made others think he could not be frightened was this: while Steve knew how to fear, he did not know how to show it—not in a fashion most could interpret. When he was afraid, he stood up taller, broader, stronger. When he was afraid, determination overwhelmed it. When he was afraid, he fought it. Tooth for tooth, nail for nail. He did not consider this a virtue—hell, he was hardly aware of it. He felt his fear. He felt the quake and shudder of a core made uncertain. But, as they say: "courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it".
And that is how he lived, because he had to. Because it was a part of him.
Looking at the woman perched over his midsection, he knew there was something about her that should make him fearful. Someone who crawls into other people's bedrooms in the dead of night is not a sane someone. And she had violated his space, his safety, his body, without hesitation. These are not the acts of a person for whom rationality and logic are in their personal arsenal; this is not someone who has a firm grasp on reality. And though society might not ever interpret this moment as such, her hand touching him like this was an act of violence. So he knew he should be afraid. And his muscles thrummed with restrained energy as a result of this; it really was taking all he had not to unceremoniously heave her out the window from which she came.
For while this woman was likely worth fearing, Steve also had to give her a slight benefit of the doubt. He knew he was capable of very badly hurting her, and he was not the type to do that unless he thought someone deserved it. At work and on his missions, that was generally a black-and-white decision, but here? It was murky. The world might sense something vaguely wrong with this situation, but on the whole, men like sex, right? It doesn't matter how they get it, where or when. Men are the sexual predators, not women. And Steve, bisexual in nature, ought to like it even more for all the options in partners he had. Never mind that grief and the concrete belief he had lost a soul mate in Ash's death had made Steve about as enthused about the whole concept as a corpse. Never mind that a religious upbringing had made him generally chaste, other than the few kisses stolen in high school from the few girls who at least found him endearing; Ash had been his first. Never mind, never mind, never mind. Even while a voice in the back of his head screamed, 'this is not right!', he doubted whether he had any right to believe that. And that bewildered him.
Rather than let his confusion show, Steve worked his jaw slightly, swallowed, and exhaled—but he didn't lash out. Even when the redheaded woman took the hand he was trying to use to cover himself and pressed it into her thigh instead. He twisted free of her grasp and pulled away; he ignored the tingling that began in his fingertips, urging him in a needling sort of way to go wash them. It wasn't that she was dirty or unclean, or even diseased—because of what he was, Steve could tell she was healthy. No, he just… didn't want to touch her. He didn't want this.
"I don't want to do anything with you. I don't know you. I'd like you to get off now, please." He realized that despite his control, he was breathing a little harder even though they had both seen a little movement; the grip Carrie had on his length was tight, and the pressure disconcerting. How could something simultaneously push some deeply hidden arousal button and yet make him feel disgusting? Though he released her wrist at her response, he shifted uncomfortably beneath her, trying to keep their skin to skin contact to a minimum.
It was taking all he had not to throw her—no matter how you looked at it, he couldn't yet bring himself to justify it—and it showed in the faint tremble of wire-taut muscles, coiled and waiting for the moment they could be free of this situation. He didn't know where he would go, but it would be far, far away from here, where he could make sense of the piece of himself he had just lost—blaming himself even though his only mistake was leaving the window open—because he had let this happen.
A victim, still lying in bed, completely motionless
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Dec 10 2016, 04:38 PM
Many might truly believe that nothing made sense in Carrie's mind. That she was a thousand strings of nonsense that didn't belong together whatsoever; loop after loop and knot after knot of illusion, imagination and insanity. While the latter might have been true - she was insane, though that wasn't something she realized in herself - things made perfect sense to Carrie as far as she was concerned. She knew when someone wanted her; she was physically appealing, after all. Her breasts were full and perky, her waist was slim and her hips were just enough to grab in the heat of the moment...
Married men had wanted her, single men had wanted her... The more stares, compliments and pick-up lines she received, the more her logic was validated. The fact that men already in relationships were willing to throw it all away for a night in bed with her proved, in her mind, that anyone and everyone - regardless of situations - wanted her.
Sure, some might try to play hard to get, but that made the game all the more fun as far as she was concerned. She was able to take the time to show them exactly what they were missing out on, much as she was doing to the male beneath her. Had she startled him? Perhaps, but she knew based on his body's reaction that he was enjoying it, even if he was trying to push back by telling her otherwise.
There had been a few that had played a little too hard to get; Carrie couldn't wrap her mind around how someone could want her so badly only to turn around and get physical with her, claiming she had come onto them and they hadn't wanted anything to do with her... She had had bruises, cuts, even broken bones (mainly ribs) but her pay back was always being able to play the card she was dealt: who was a police officer going to believe? A male that had been assaulted by a woman, or a woman that had been beaten by a man when things had gotten a touch too passionate?
Carrie was able to see Steve's breathing getting a little harder, a little heavier, though it wasn't because he was as turned on as she was. She was oblivious to the fact that he barely knew who she was; she had spoken to him a few times and already felt like maybe they were meant to be together and that was exactly why she wanted to give herself over to him so completely, to make him feel as amazing as she felt around him.
The way he shifted beneath her had her lips pulling into a small smirk as she truly believed he was trying to press his hips up into hers or something of the sort. More so as he listened to her words and released her hand. Really, he was hoping she would stay true to her word and would both stop touching him and get off his bed, but Carrie truly believed that once she made him give himself over to her totally and completely, he'd see just how right she was in regards to him both wanting and enjoying this.
Her hips lifted; to anyone else, it might have looked as though she were trying to respect his request - well, his demand - and climb off and away from him altogether. Really, Carrie was just appreciating the fact that Steve had unknowingly granted her an opening to position herself above his erection that she continued to grip as she quickly guided it inside of her while her hips pressed down onto it until she was able to feel every inch of him buried deep inside of her.
Feeling him inside of her after having wanted it so fucking bad had her coming almost immediately with a loud moan, not at all caring if anyone in his home heard her. Her body squeezing around him as her hands pulled his up above his head so that she could hold them there, leaning over his body as her hips still worked up; raising up until he was barely inside of her before pressing them back down until he was buried right back inside of her. She wasn't a selfish lover; even if she had reached her own climax, she'd keep working him until he found his own and - given her lack of protection and his obvious lack of it, as well - she could only hope that it would help create a life that would force a bond between the two that would never be broken...
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Dec 28 2016, 10:04 PM
Steve was bisexual.
Even as a young man, he had known his affections for the sexes swung both ways. He walked the line of attraction on an almost perfectly even keel, just as often crushing on his male classmates as the female ones. However, he was also the son of parents just religious enough for it to matter—and what with him being a quiet, awkward boy particularly blind to the flirtations of others, it had been easier to wrap himself in the guise of chastity by doctrine than to even begin try to experiment and really understand the breadth of his sexuality.
That's why Ashley had been his first. Not his first kiss—that was owed to Rosa, a girl from his graduating class. He had nursed a small crush for her throughout high school, sharing his lunch table with her where they'd often sketch in amicable silence. Too shy to say as much, nothing ever came of it. When his mother died, she came to the pitifully small funeral, and waited while Steve spent an hour just standing by Sarah's graveside, wrestling with his grief. He hadn't known she was there until he turned away, but she had come up to him and placed a delicate kiss on his lips. He had kissed her back, puffy eyes and running nose and all, and they had left cemetery wordlessly, hand in hand. After they parted, he never saw her again; last he heard she was working uptown in a bank, doing well for herself and traveling at will. Maybe there could have been love there—there had been something, but he hadn't known what. A kind of love for the hurting and the hurt. It had been nice, and he had enjoyed it, but…
Ashley. Ashley had been the first he had loved mind, body, and soul. He had known that man's body like the back of his hand. Their first kiss, coming to pass after two years of military-induced repression and getting to know each other in every other way, had been both soothing and electric. Their first night together—delivering of a strong conviction that the universe had finally come to be at peace with Steven Grant Rogers. The pieces fit, the end of the beginning was complete.
A story like that? Call him stubborn, call him meek, but he hadn't wanted to move on. And while he hungered, for he was as much a warm-blooded human with a sexual appetite as the next, there wasn't really any satisfying those desires. He was too attached to the pages already written. It was a fault of his, in a way, for it kept him lonely—he had never been able to move on from his damages easily, carrying them around like a pack of old love letters he kept on flipping through. Here was where he learned life wasn't fair, and where he discovered love didn't cure all—especially not an infection of the lungs in one of the worst winters New York had ever see. Here's where he found out what it meant to make irrevocable mistakes, and here's where he stumbled on what it was like to lose someone you loved without getting to say goodbye. All these words, all these lines, they made up who he was as a person. And that person was incapable of letting go of the one life that had bridged the gap between his anger and his resentment and his guilt... and the ability to forgive. Not the world, not those who had wronged him, but himself.
If Ash had thought of Steve as his sun, then Steve had thought of Ash as the road before him. The lantern guiding him across an empty and darkened expanse. The step right before the fall, and the waters that would catch him. Steve knew where he fit in the world when Ash had been alive, had been with him. Maybe not everything was perfect, but with Ash, Steve could embrace the imperfections. With Ash, he had known how to be content, to be brave, to be happy.
This is why he didn't move on. This is why a year out, he had neither kissed nor touched another soul with the intention of exploration. It wasn't in him to tear out each stitch of Ash's influence that had bound itself up with his own soul. He'd rather live a life of mourning then endure the painful excision of moving on, knowing every step he took forward was a step closer to forgetting the other half of his soul.
The woman above him—whom, even more so frighteningly, he didn't even entirely recognize, because his mind couldn't rationalize this interloper with the flirty and friendly woman he had spoken to online—began to move away, and Steve allowed himself the smallest of sighs of relief. For all his strength and power, he didn't actually like hurting people, not even when they wronged him. He knew he was capable of dealing great damage. Discovering that had undoubtedly killed a few people in the very beginning—though it had been a "him or them" situation, in which guns were leveled and bullets fired. Justified self-defense, yes. But he didn't relish it. He may be a fighter, but he still considered a core aspect of his personality to be one of healing.
But, wait. No. Instead of climbing off of him, which was what he had thought was happening…
In that moment, he was paralyzed. Not by any external power, and certainly not by the strength of the woman on top of him. But he had no idea what to do. Society tells us this is the perfect horny dream come true, to being woken up by a beautiful woman eager and willing to do anything to pleasure him. Steve was no more immune to those thought processes than anyone else, though he rejected them on a conscious level because that simply wasn't always true. On a subconscious level, though? A few seconds of inaction were almost certainly dedicated to the battle between what the world might believe he should feel about what was happening, and what he actually felt.
She pushed down on top of him, and he felt himself inside of her. Warm. Constricting. Overwhelming. Though it wasn't his chest wrapped in her body, he suddenly felt as though a great weight had settled down on top of him and was pinning him as well. He couldn't breathe. Even as she lifted his hands above his head, one tore lose to scrabble for the nonexistent inhaler on the night stand. It fell limp against the bare surface in the next breath; there was a feeling of writhing, of muscles pressing around him, and he, confused by the growing sensation, was startled by the moan that came forth in conjunction with it.
No. No. No.
It had taken maybe thirty seconds for Steve to go from "normal” to a statistic. Had anyone ever asked him if he thought this could happen, he might have admitted he would have thought it more likely to happen to his previous self—that version of Steve had been many things, but strong was not one of them. In his mind, he had somehow always assumed if it came to this, the fact he could lift a car would certainly negate the chance for anyone to complete this kind of assault—not that recent memory led him to believe he had ever even considered this situation possible. But it had.
But it had happened. And he hadn’t stopped it. Why? He had had every chance. Why wasn’t he stopping this?
A part of him inhaled and exhaled, one last time. Then no more. Steve had been accosted by violence, death, war, disease—you name it, he had faced it. Certainly every time he lost a loved one, a little bit of his heart went with them, but this? This was different. It wasn’t his heart. Maybe it was his soul. Or his trust. Maybe some of that infinite belief in the goodness of people had fled. Something was different. Something had been poisoned, or tarnished. He was tainted.
He was made of paper.
He was made of glass.
He was smoke, torn away by the wind.
He was the earth, washed away by the rain.
Broad hands—hands he still didn’t always see as his own—wrapped around porcelain skin and lean muscle. He had Carrie by the forearms, and his grip had moved behind restricting and into cruel, bruising for certain. He was shaking bad now, shaking with anger, with disgust, with control. If he released now, this woman, his rapist, would go flying with a force that could punch through walls. It would almost certainly kill her. And yet, even now, even after he had been defiled by this stranger, he did not enact his revenge on her. Was this worthy of that? No. Maybe. He didn’t know. No explanation would ever be justified in this peculiar south; he could never be seen as the victim.
“Get. Off. Of. Me. Now.”
A victim, still lying in bed, completely motionless
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Jan 21 2017, 08:39 PM
There had been very, very, very few times in the past where Carrie had truly been able to see and accept rejection and those had been some extremely direct situations that had involved someone she had loved (well, someone her psychosis had led her to believe she loved) trying to end her life in a savage attempt to rid their own lives of her totally and completely. That wasn't to say that every attempt on her life, to her, had been rejection; sometimes she viewed a bit of violence as an act of passion which only seemed to fuel her own obsessions all the more.
Feeling Steve's tight grip on her forearms had the redhead gasping out in slight surprise at the sheer strength behind his grip. She could see for herself that his man was made of muscle but to feel him putting them to use on her only fuelled the burning desire she had for him. Knowing that his hands were marking her body in ways that only he could... Knowing that she'd have his marks on her pale skin for days to come; that she could proudly show any man that dared approach her that she belonged to someone...
You're hurting me..." Her words were whispered out with a soft exhale of breath; her body straightening up as she slight look of shock turned into a soft look of excitement and approval. "I like it..." Yet she couldn't understand why he was still trying to play hard to get. Wasn't this every man's fantasy? A beautiful, physically fit and endowed woman sneaking into their room in the middle of the night to please him however he could possibly want? Did he not realize that she was willing to do anything he asked of her, so long as it meant he would be happy with what she was offering him?
She could hear his words as clear as day, but that didn't mean that she understood the reason behind them or what he was truly implying as he spoke. "Do you want to be on top? You can be... Or you could press me up against the wall... bend me over this bed..." Her question and the words that followed were almost too innocently asked and spoken, proving she truly believed that he was wanting a change in position rather than her to vacate his bed and refrain from touching him altogether; that was how deep her delusions ran.
Her eyes travelled to his hands that continued to grip her arms tightly enough to bruise - something that still filled her with an unspoken excitement - as she bit down on her bottom lip gently. "Do you want to hurt me?" Her eyes were moving back up his body until they found his; she was trying to lean down over him again to whisper in his ear but his grip on her was preventing her from doing so. Her weight, instead, resting on his grip as a small smirk found her lips. "Do you want to hit me... you can, you know. I'd like it..."
That wasn't so much as a breath of a lie, either. Whatever it took to keep someone her heart craved, Carrie had always been willing to do. Even if that meant that someone needed to be hurt in the process, be it their girlfriend, their fiancé, their wife or even Carrie, herself, if that's what turned them on.
"Just let me take care of you, baby... Just enjoy it. How good it feels to be inside me... How badly we've been wanting this..." While it was hard to do anything but sit there on his lap with him still buried inside of her, Carrie was able to grind her dips down against his with him still so deep inside of her. Just enough to let him feel just how badly she wanted to make him happy...
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Jan 26 2017, 11:15 PM
The unwanted woman's words fell on deaf ears—or rather, uncomprehending ones. Steve knew she was speaking. Her words had form, had meaning, and value that their speaker intended to convey, but for the life of him... it was like she was shouting across a chasm and he was too far to hear. The roar of blood rushing through his ears was stealing away her voice as soon as she used it. Even with the muffled, distorted syllables breaking through, he was all but alone in his own skull, unable to grasp the gist of it.
Somewhere, because Steve was not made a man man who could ignore the input his environment gave him—whether he liked it or not—his subconscious took note of the details of the situation with a machine-like precision. It was contradictory, yes, but should he sit and think a while tomorrow, or a week from now, he would be able to bring this moment to the surface and know, even if he did not know now. Steve may not hear, or wanted to rebuff the concept because of the intention behind it, and his body certainly tried to do that, but his ears still worked. His mind still processed. He would not forget. He could not.
Sometimes, we as humans are paradoxical. What aspect of the spirit allows one to leap to the defense of others without hesitation—but when it comes to their own body, their own self, their own well-being, to not know how to act at all? Steve failed to react, not because he wasn't capable of changing directions on a dime, but because he didn't know why or how. Why? Why hadn't he stopped this from happening? It seemed so simple: there were so many ways he could have reacted in order to prevent this. To prevent being touched in such a way, to avoid this violation of his self and body, to keep this person from doing something she might, in her right mind, possibly regret. But why hadn't he? Why had he allowed this to happen—for surely there was a reason he had? And how? How could he stop this clearly deranged human being, who needed not violence, but far more likely, some form of help? Normal minds don't think like this. Normal minds don't decide to do this. Maybe she was faking it—or maybe she wasn't. She wove a story that implied a past he simply didn't have with her, and that just didn't seem sane. He could destroy her with his fist alone, but did she deserve it? Was she cognizant enough to realize what she was doing was wrong?
While this ethical conundrum was igniting a war on the surface, below, Steve was all but empty. To feel would be to acknowledge, and he couldn't acknowledge. Not here. Not now. Not unless he wanted it to continue. Acknowledging it would be to be immobilized by it, and he had to make it stop.
Even as she pushed her hips down, triggering a startled gasp from him, he was pushing her away. It took a single-minded focus not to send her through the wall—as soon as she was off the bed, and off him, sickening sounds of bodies separating and all, he had rolled off the bed. The crouch he took was two-fold in its purpose: one, to allow him to cover himself again, and two, to put a protective hand up lest she try to to approach him once. The adrenaline of the moment kept him hard and that might show—that, or the way he leaked through the thin cotton of his sweatpants immediately—but he'd be damned if she touched him like that again.
What was wrong with him? Why was he reacting like this?
"I don't want anything, especially not you. I don't even know you. And you need to go. Before I call the police." A hollow lie—what police officer south of the Mason-Dixon Line would believe him? But, at this point, he'd take anything to get her to leave. Whatever she had to believe—he was giving her an out by letting her go, because all he wanted to do was to scrub the individual layers of his skin off until he felt clean again.
Somehow, he thought he might never reach that point. There was an abyss of a darkness in the pit of his stomach, and though he currently kept it at bay, he knew it was threatening to swallow him.
Hadn't he suffered enough?
A victim, still lying in bed, completely motionless
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: May 8 2017, 08:03 PM
Contrary to what people might have believed about Carrie these days, she had always wanted to be something better. She had always been average (or just below) in everything she set out to do. Her high school grades were mediocre and she had just barely made the cut in the policing academy; even upon landing a job with the New Orleans Police Department, Carrie struggled to make herself known to her peers.
She had never been the quickest officer on the force; she had struggled to keep up in any chase she had been involved in, be it on foot or behind the wheel. She could only hit a target fifty percent of the time, and kill shots were next to impossible. It seemed as though no matter how hard she had tried, and no matter how many extra hours she had put into private training... it just wouldn't pay off. She was still an invisible liability that continued to fail at everything her superiors handed down to her.
Sometimes she could remember that sense of failure. How it felt as though your heart was sinking into your stomach and all the air was pushing itself out of your lungs, refusing to let you take in a single breath. Watching Steve covering himself and threatening to phone the police - the very people she had worked alongside - stung as much as any failure did.
The difference now was that Carrie couldn't fail. While her own damaged mind couldn't remember exactly how she had met Amanda on that cold, bitter, rainy day inside a quiet coffee shop, it had very well happened exactly like that. One confident, powerful redhead finding another redhead crying into her cooling coffee after having left it sitting untouched just a little too long. Amanda had taken pity on Carrie and in that moment had chosen her to be one of her first test subjects upon being hired by the Division.
Amanda had been known to be able to get into someone's mind in ways no psychologist or hypnotist could; she claimed she would be able to trigger things in Carrie's own mind that would help her strengthen her skill sets. There were brief moments where Carrie could remember bits and pieces of her sessions with Amanda; some of the hallucinations and the dreams Amanda triggered - all of them horrific in their own ways. Being trapped in a maze-like building with no way out while your biggest fears corners you and hunted you down. Clinging to a tree after a tsunami swept in and demolished everything around you, knowing if you let go, you'd be swept out to sea and to your death...
There had been hundreds of sessions, most of which Carrie had no memory of. Each one altering both her memory and her sanity. Stripping away everything that had once made her good and replacing it with nothing short of absolute mental instability; her mind making up scenarios that were so far from reality it had her bordering on dangerous more than not.
The woman that she used to be would have wanted to protect the man that was clearly struggling to deal with the situation she had forced him into; she had wanted to spend her life serving and protecting, not ruining the lives of anyone she touched.
"Call the police?" She'd be out of here before he even got through to someone, but that was well beside the point. Her mind worked in sick and twisted little ways; she knew how to keep him from so much as picking up the phone. This wasn't her first time cornering someone she felt she was truly in love with, after all... The police wouldn't believe that a fragile-looking girl like Carrie had climbed into Steve's window and had taken advantage of him. "I'm sure they'd love to hear about how you held me down on your bed... How you bruised my arms..."
Her pale hands made quick work at ripping the front of her nightie open, exposing her equally as pale breasts to the man she had been on top of moments ago. "How you tore my nightgown before you forced yourself inside of me..." Realistically, the police were more likely to believe her than him; it was near impossible for someone her size to overpower someone with Steve's height and muscle mass... at least as far as any ordinary cop was concerned.... "We could skip all of that... Skip all of it and go back to you touching me... to you so deep inside of me, you won't ever want this night to end..."
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: May 23 2017, 11:32 PM
If Steve thought there was a way out before—a light at the end of this terrible, awful, dank, endless tunnel—then he was a witness to its abrupt disappearance now. Snuffed out like fingertips closing upon a candle flame, he lost all sense of details, of the necessary orientation to figure out how to circumvent this impending crisis. Perhaps escape had been an illusion all along. Perhaps there had never really been a way out from this night; rather, the light was a reflection, some glossed surface showing what was behind him instead of what was ahead. The only escape laid in the past, far beyond him.
The simplicity of the act was what had doomed him: give him a complicated breach of a secure facility, and he could strategize the six-plus ways they needed to enter, who to send, and how to do it—without loss, without compromise. But this? He had been accosted in his sleep, and now… now he was being blackmailed with the very thing he hadn’t even been given a choice in.
He could run. He could incapacitate Carrie. He could…
What could he do?
Steve lifted his hands, as though to shield Carrie from a distance—to cover her when she uncovered herself—and looked away, blue-green eyes falling to half-mast lest he see her. He didn’t want to look at her. That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? For him to look at her like he wanted her? But he didn’t. Maybe in another life, he would have seen the beauty in the woman before him, but right now, all he could see was how every possible choice led down the same road to the same darkness. There was no attraction in that.
If he ran, he would have no control over the outcome. He would be free of this moment, of its inevitability, but he wouldn’t be free of the consequences that came with it. And maybe he could accept that, if those consequences only had to do with him… but anything that happened tonight and got out would undoubtedly affect his brothers. His friends. His family. The symbol he had, on behalf of the SSR, and on behalf of Grant—who deserved to finally reap the benefits of his sacrifices—decided to take on. Carrie could desecrate the Rogers’ name, and Steve would be able to live with that, because his own self-worth mattered so little to him, but if she damaged everything Grant and Peggy had built instead? How could he live with that? If Nick was ostracized because they thought Steve a rapist, and maybe unjust assumptions? How could he ever face himself again?
But wouldn’t giving in also do much the same? Wasn’t a failure to find a way out of this minefield of a maze a betrayal in its own right, not only to himself, but to everyone with whom he was connected? Hell, wasn’t he damaging Carrie in his own way by not giving her the out she clearly needed? By not somehow helping her?
He looked down. His hands hung in the air, palms up and fingers curled, held away from him in sheer disgust. The front of his sweatpants was well-stained with a dusky storm-cloud of his own fluids, mixed with hers. Sweat spawned from nerves, from the internal struggle, sat glistening on his shoulders. All the scientific evidence would point towards him being the one to have attacked Carrie. If she left now, she’d have the bruises to support his “savagery”, and that alone could convince a particularly compassionate jury of terrible wrongdoing. Not to mention what was inside her. She had everything she needed to play the victim and he? He was the villain. No matter what happened, he could not escape that condemnation.
What other choice did he have?
Some burdens have to be carried, Stevie. That’s what Sarah Rogers had often told her son. Some things must be endured, even if it sucks, even if you don’t like it. In another life, you’d be free. But in this life? Bear what must be borne, Steven Grant Rogers. Bear it until you can’t anymore, and bear it still more.
The soldier’s throat worked. He let his hands fall. A thousand prayers were said, to his mother, to his father, to his friends… to anyone who had passed on from this life without him… to the love of his life… a thousand words were said without being spoken. He yearned for them all, silently, begging for forgiveness, for absolution… for even a heartbeat’s worth of mercy for what was about to happen. Please… A few steps towards. I didn’t mean for this... Then a few more. I’m sorry.
Please. Don’t hate me.
When he was but a foot or two from the woman, Steve stopped. He met the redhead’s gaze, eyes dark, but focused, beneath a furrowed brow and above a thin, determined line of a mouth. There was no anger in his expression. No loathing. Only resignation. Only the sight of a soul, fragmenting a little more in order to protect itself, recognizing the sheer lack of alternative options.
When his hands lifted this time, they were open and reaching… not wanton, but… reaching all the same.
A victim, still lying in bed, completely motionless
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Jun 25 2017, 04:46 PM
There had once been a time when Carrie had been the epitome of health, contrary to popular belief. It was a shock to anyone that knew her more recent history and knew her on a personal level these last few years.
All that she had ever wanted to be was more. More than the underappreciated SWAT agent she had once been as her performance began to wane and her colleagues began happily and eagerly accepting praise and awards for her accomplishments.
The decision to accept Amanda's offer and to undergo an experimentation they called COBALT with the alleged military organization Amanda referred to as the Division, Carrie had been promised that the end results would be physical rejuvenation and enhanced abilities. She hadn't known at the time that the cost would be her memory and her sanity.
Everything that she had ever found herself wanting, she now craved. Appreciation from those she worked with, which the Division often showered her with if only to keep themselves in her good graces. Respect from her colleagues, though the respect she felt she received was merely those around her both fearing her and succumbing to intimidation.
She craved attention from a lover. Someone who lived and breathed for her; someone that thought of only her and put her above everything. Above their job, their friends, their family, their co-workers and careers...
In her mind, those she was most fascinated with were unable to refuse what she was willing to offer them. Her mind simply couldn't process an alternative when she wanted that happy-ending-love with someone her obsession latched itself onto.
Even here with Steve, she couldn't understand right from wrong. She couldn't process how low and spiteful her threatening to accuse him of sexual assault was. To her, if she pushed him hard enough - like with the threat of accusing him of sexual assault - he would realize his feelings for her and be more willing to admit them once and for all.
She simply wasn't able to process the fact that him falling into her game was him trying to spare himself a potential conviction. That wasn't even an option for her illness.
Her eyes never strayed from Steve, even as he refused to look at her for those first few long moments. She wondered if he was going to come to his senses or if he wanted to play her little game. Would he get off on having the police come to his door? Would he enjoy the two of them playing that hard to get, or did he want to cut to the chase and simply have her right there and right then, much as she wanted to have him?
He slowly began closing the distance between the two of them, yet didn't close it completely. Did he want her to continue making all the first moves? Perhaps... Carrie didn't mind quelling his fears over the love she knew they had; if he needed her to guide him into this before he could take control and love her the way she wanted to be loved, she'd happily do so.
Finally, he was pulling his eyes back up to hers and finally, he was opening his arms - and hopefully his heart - to her. Carrie didn't waste any time in closing that foot or so of space that still lingered between them. Her hands cupping the taller male's face as her lips - warm and wanting - were pressing into his.
Her lips didn't stay long; they moved to the spot where his shoulder and his neck met before they placed a few scattered kisses along his bare chest. There was no slowness to her movements; she wanted him too badly to waste time, but there was a certain tenderness to each kiss she placed, even as her lips found his once again.
The redhead took a few steps forward, pressing her body tighter against hers in an effort to move him backward just enough to have his legs meeting the side of his bed until he was collapsing back onto it, though this time in a seated position with Carrie quickly positioning herself to straddle him.
She didn't want to pull her lips from his - he was too intoxicating - but she was craving more than just his lips, especially after the small taste she had had of all he had to offer...
"Take your sweats off..." She could have just as easily helped him with that, but Carrie was far too focused on kissing the lips she had been dreaming about for so damn long. That, and she wanted to see him finally partaking in everything she had been trying to offer him that evening. She wanted to see just how much she was needing her...
Lifting her hips just enough to offer him the room to remove his sweats that continued to show just how badly he wanted her if he chose to comply, Carrie's next words were whispered against his lips. "I want you to put yourself back inside of me..."
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Sep 18 2017, 10:45 PM
Mouth to mouth, but it was… wrong. Her warm lips; his cold ones. Excused from the physical ailments that sometimes befell those around him, even Steve was not entirely free from the physiological reactions of an emotional response. He could put on a brave face and let Carrie do this to him, but even with the mind determined, the heart was not willing… and that showed in the minuta. In the space between fingers that hesitated, then, haltingly, drew themselves up Carrie’s sides and around her back. In the way his tongue stayed firmly put, even as hers quested for his. In the way he let her body press flush against his.
The air in the room had gotten oppressive, even with the window open. A gentle breeze brushed Steve’s bare back, but he couldn’t feel it. Each molecule seemed to weigh a metric ton, and it was all settling on Steve’s shoulders. Was this dread? Was this fear? It blocked out all feeling, except that which was Carrie’s hands, and Carrie’s lips: brands that left indelible marks on his psyche, even if they did not do so to his skin.
His breath hitched. Carrie might mistake it for passion, for lust, but it was the feeling of drowning. Could he breathe? His diaphragm was frozen in place, kicking out little halfhearted efforts to feed his brain with oxygen. Did he really need air to process the war inside his head? The war of voices, with the enemy whispering… you should enjoy this… that’s what men do… even you, Steven, are not exempt from the hungers of the beast… men can’t be raped… deep down, you must want this… if you’re letting her have you….
In order to preserve his own sanity, walls came down and snicked firmly into place around the little part of him that was still Steve… small, angry, scared… but so, so determined to survive. That part had to stay. Without it, who would he be? For the sake of himself, he must douse himself in darkness and carry out this act, so that tomorrow he might still do his job, still be trusted, still be loved.
Carrie, for all her manipulation, seemed to evoke a sort of tenderness with how and when and where she placed her kisses. She carved out a constellation in his skin, and Steve would later, despite not being willing to recall anything else, be able to perfectly recount exactly where and between which heartbeat she had landed.
Again, a kiss he had to participate in. A hand tried to cup her cheek, and fell away, instead brushing her hair from her bare shoulder without touching her skin. His chest shuddered. And when she began to try and shorten a distance that did not exist, he stepped when she stepped, until he could step no more. He fell back, letting her full weight come to bear upon him. In the past few minutes, his body had cooled a little, from a mixture of unhappiness and reluctance, of a stomach-sick knowledge he had to go through with this, or suffer the consequences. But with her now straddling him, it responded in kind; when she pressed, she would feel him, just as full and solid as before, as if there was no doubt he wanted this.
She gave him space, but it was not a reprieve. The last defenses between this and the moment had to go. For a split second, he looked up at her, jaw grimly set despite eyes that angrily begged for anything but this. But whether she saw it was up for debate; she was kissing him again, obviously assuming he would follow through. That he would cave into her desires, and give her what she wanted.
She was right.
Sweatpants. Boxers. Both crumpled to the floor, past bare ankles and feet. He was naked beneath her now, naked and sweating. The end result was gleaming, unmarred skin that reflected with the dusky glow of the street lamps outside, eerily perfect in a way that might seem unreal. It certainly did to him. Freckles, scars, birthmarks… all gone. How can anyone look at a body like this in the mirror and see themselves in it? Yet perhaps part of the reason Carrie sat atop him now was because of this body, this too-perfect marble statue that nonetheless wanted nothing more to be seen for who he was… flawed and human.
He gripped his length in his hand. With nowhere to go, the tip was undoubtedly tickling Carrie, for she had not lifted herself very far. This. This was the moment of truth. If he went through with this, he would be a willing participant in her schemes, and no one would ever, ever see anything otherwise. If he didn’t, he would undoubtedly be labeled a predator—he may still be, but giving Carrie what she wanted was less of a risk than resisting, when others would see the story they wanted to see. Physical evidence fades. And if he could last beyond that… if she was sated until then… then maybe he could go back to his life.
Don’t kid yourself, Steve. There’s no going back from this.
Maybe it was because Steve wanted some part of this to be his choice. Or maybe because he didn’t want Carrie to do the deed. Maybe he didn’t want to completely be the victim. Maybe rationality had fled when he stepped outside himself; and yet, he hadn’t completely let go. Maybe it was hope. Maybe maybe maybe. No matter what he did, unless he did something truly unspeakable, this was what came next. There was no avoiding that.
He had never been with a woman before. He had to slide both hands beneath her, to probe, to find where he was even meant to go. But he did. He pushed inside her. Just a little. Just the start. And then he froze, unable to finish the deed. Bile surged in his throat. Who was this man, with dirty blonde hair, and sea-blue eyes flecked with green? Who was this boy, so lost and angry and desperate he tried his hardest to save everyone else from that fate? Was that him? Was this man, about to walk a path of intimacy with a stranger because his life as he knew it had been threatened, him?
That couldn’t be.
Who was Steve?
A victim, still lying in bed, completely motionless
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Mar 30 2018, 06:30 PM
Had Carrie been of sound mind, she would have easily been able to pick up on the non-verbal cues that Steve was dropping left, right and center. Cues that indicated he wasn't at all enjoying the intimate moments that the two were sharing. Had Carrie been of sound mind, she wouldn't have let things progress, and she sure as hell wouldn't still be on top of the man beneath her, fully engaged in an activity he was clearly not wanting to participate in.
Yet, the way his breath hitched had excitement filling her almost as completely as he had been mere moments ago. A belief that he was enjoying this as much as she was based on a physical reaction to her that was screaming otherwise.
His hands soft and slow against her sides and then her back... touches that only fuelled Carrie's belief that he wanted her. That she had been right in knowing that the two had been made for each other and that despite his reluctance, he felt that spark between them that she had recognized since day one.
The tip of his length tickled between her thighs as Carrie did very little to help the male beneath her; she wanted to watch him participate, as if seeing him being active in this meant that he was enjoying himself. It didn't quite work that way — nowhere close, really — but as far as Carrie was concerned, active participation was consent.
His hands were beneath her, probing in what Carrie believed to be his form of foreplay, though that was the furthest thing from the truth. Even though his fingers touched her and even though he slowly eased the start of his length into her, he wanted no part in any of this. Backed into a corner, he reacted to survive this, not to enjoy this.
Using her palms flat against his bare chest to brace herself as she raised her hips up just enough for her to offer some assistance in helping him ease himself back inside of her. Applying just enough pressure downward to ensure she would be able to slide herself down the rest of his length, believing his unwillingness to complete the act being an act of teasing rather than seeing it for what it truly was.
Fully seated on the male she had found herself obsessed with, Carrie let her hands slide up his bare chest before letting them come to a rest on the bed on either side of his head. Her hands gripping his bed-sheets as she began to slowly grind her hips down in circles against his. Trying her hardest not to disturb the full amount of his length inside of her, at least not yet.
"Touch me..." She was bare for him after all; what man wouldn't want to take advantage of that? What man that loved her wouldn't want to take advantage of that?
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