albinomilksnake | Open RP: Smutty nonsense

At first she's not entirely certain what's happening when pressure against her spine sends her stumbling forward into stone and grit-- whether it's one of Lazarevic's grunts or Nate trying to shove her out of harm's way or (god forbid) one of those freakish guardians attempting to clear out whatever survivors are left scattered amongst the ruins. It's not until the solid dig of metal sinks into the flesh between bones that her assumptions narrow, and his voice slipping into her ear turns her cold and rigid despite the discomfort that comes from going sharp against rock. Against him.

He'd risked his neck for her and she'd nearly broken his nose for it no more than a few hours ago. She'd abandoned him and his plans long before they'd set foot in Shambhala. Gun or not, Chloe Frazer knows what that tone means.

"Easy, Harry," She starts, fingers tracing the outline of the crossbow to be sure it's still there in her grip. Unlikely as it is that he'd pull the trigger, the insurance is what keeps her tone even and calm. "It's just you and me, yeah? No need for all this."

"I'm not so sure about that." He wants there to be an edge in his voice, something sharp and painful to press against her ears and wiggle into her brain. Unfortunately, the edge he wants is more like a purr. A dangerous sort of purr, yes, but nothing like the knife he'd prefer. He rather hates himself for that.

Going for more steel in his voice, he presses the gun against her side, thumbing the trigger idly. "You should put the crossbow down, love. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt." He breathes the last against her ear, his free hand sliding from her shoulders to the wrist attached to the hand holding the crossbow. Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, his thumb brushes against the soft skin on the underside of his arm, and he grits his teeth against a shiver. His teeth find her ear lobe a second later, closing gently and tugging lightly.

The moderately intelligent part of his brain suggests ruins full of immortal monkey men isn't such a great place for a fuck. The part of his brain that knows how to have a bit of fun suggests the first part can stuff it. He's only considering sex because it's a means to an end: having her under him, physically and mentally. Maybe emotionally, too. Wouldn't that be just delightful. "Crossbow, pet," he murmurs, pressing his mouth to the side of her neck.

He might be the one with a bullet angled straight towards her heart, but he's toying with something decidedly more vicious than a housecat when cornered, and despite the pressure on her wrist, the scrape of sharp teeth over skin, Chloe's temper is already beginning to boil. Because it's Harry. Because he can't succeed without fumbling to save his life-- literally-- and Chloe is, between the pair of them, infinitely more capable. She could crush him with the barest window of opportunity.

She wants that window so desperately that his demands are ignored, tugging her neck back to keep his mouth at bay.

And the edge he lacks, Chloe finds with ease. "Piss off, Harry. And put the gun away before you hurt yourself."

Her tone scrapes over his nerves, lighting every one of them on fire, though he's not quite sure if it's the fire of anger or lust. It doesn't bother him, being unable to distinguish between the two. He was used to the combination with her.

"Not until you put the crossbow down," he said, pressing and open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder. Half of him just wanted to drop the gun and drive his hand into her pants, and he was trying to remember precisely why that was a bad idea.

Crossbow. Because crossbow. Right.

With one hand clamped over her wrist and her opposite side covered by the bite of his gun, Chloe can't maneuver enough to jam her free arm back into his chest without giving him more than enough time to react. He has her at a loss and unless she wants to add fuel to a wildfire, pressing him further over the edge won't do her any good. Yet.

The crossbow hits the floor with a dull, damp little thud no more than a few seconds later.

"There. Fine. Now come off it, would you?"

Kicking the crossbow away, well out of easy reach for either of them, he relents, a smug grin on his face. He gives her more space, letting her ease off the wall, but he doesn't remove the gun from her side. His hand curls around her hip, fingers sliding over hot, soft skin, and he stifles a groan.

Poorly. Very poorly.

"I would have done anything for you, you know," he tells her, though he's not entirely sure why. She doesn't need to know this, but he feels a strange compulsion to tell her. To justify his behavior. He wants to hurt her as much as he doesn't. Or, maybe, it's that he wants to overpower her. Control her. He's never been able to do that before, but he's finally in a place - mentally, sort of; it's not like his mental state is pristine at the moment - where he's okay with using a bit of force to get what he wants from her. Gently. Gentle force. Was that possible?

Stuffing his thoughts into a convenient mental box, he slid his hand around her front, dragging her against him. "Now I'm not sure if I want to put a bullet in you or fuck you." It's in that moment he realizes two things: the first is that he is completely fucked up and he doesn't care; the second is that he doesn't want to put a bullet in her as much as he wants to have filthy, dirty sex with her pressed up against the wall in front of them.

The words don't mean a damn thing: she knows him well enough to know it's a lie. One he believes, true, but a lie nonetheless. Harry only gives a damn about Harry (What he wants being a subcategory of that, with her name set firmly on the top of the list.) which means he'd really have done anything for himself.

A point he's proving with his arm wound tightly around her.

"Hardly the place for it, mate; you'll get us both killed."

"Makes it more fun, don't you think?"

He'd just survived a grenade - one he'd intended to use to kill her and Elena and Drake. He wasn't, at that moment, too particularly concerned with his life. Some men might find themselves grateful just to be alive. Harry wanted more. Her.

Slipping his hand under her shirt, his fingers brushed the underside of one breast, and the sensation sent a jolt through him. One of desperate, consuming desire. He tried not to paw her, really, but he had to touch her, and he pushed her clothes out of his way, his hand covering her breast and squeezing, a groan coming from the back of his throat. For just goddamn once he'd get what he wanted.

Normally she might agree, but this is far from normal in nearly every possible way. Control is her comfort, always has been, and Harry has a talent for tearing the reins to shreds in her hands. (Though this is the first time he's done it intentionally) Couple the consequences of his shit decisions with a hostile wasteland full of supernatural nonsense and Chloe's never been more on edge in her life.

Not the best time to tolerate his perpetual neediness.

But she tenses regardless under the press of his palm. Involuntary response overriding sense as she hisses out a low, growling breath between her teeth. It's too close to being satisfying. Much too close.

"Come on, darling," Chloe huffs, straining to press false affection into her voice. Playing on the emotions that had him blind to her actions for far, far too long. "We could get out of this together before Lazarevic turns up. Just us."

Hesitation ruins everything for him. He pauses to consider her words, and the brief pause lengthens into a handful of seconds, and it no longer feels natural to him to press her back to the rocks and rub himself bodily against her.

Fingers dropping from her breast, he grasped her hip and turned her, the barrel of the gun following the shape of her body. "Just us," he agrees, thinking he'd prefer to fuck her in a bed where he can tie her down and be assured she isn't going to run away. And then she'd be trapped, there for him as often as he wants.

Not that she intends for him to get far. The scuffle at the entrance scattered the lot of them; Chloe has no idea how either Nate or Elena are faring anymore, or if they're even still alive. Given the circumstances, as much concern as she has for the pair of them, her current situation leaves her a bit more focused on her own neck first and foremost.

Chloe doesn't sit idle on the advantage. Her fingertips crawl along the front of his blood-stained shirt, one hand slipping gently around the wrist of the hand that's holding the gun. "Uh-huh."

Edited 2013-04-11 08:13 (UTC)

Sucking in a breath at her touch - it shouldn't feel like he's been hit by a truck. Or maybe that's the injuries from the grenade - he swallows a groan. It's not like she hasn't touched him before. She's touched him loads of times. But this is different. Maybe it's his intent. Maybe it's because they're in an ancient ruin surrounded by crazy natives that want to kill them.

"If you're screwing with me, Chloe," he grits out, shifting into her space and crowding her with his body. He'd like it if she'd just be biddable (that's not true at all; he's just not the type to be honest with himself) and throw herself into his arms with a happy cry. But no. Not Chloe. Never Chloe.

Her thumb slips under the sleeve of his jacket, brushes across delicate skin with enough care that he might as well be made of glass. Or at least the civility of this conversation is, and one wrong move could shatter that easily.

She is screwing with him. It's either that or bare her teeth and pray to god he's not livid enough to forget whatever selfish attraction he has (not bloody likely) and keep his finger from tugging back on that trigger.

"Christ, Harry. You can't tell me you'd rather stay here and get yourself torn apart by Lazarevic-- or worse." There's a pressure point nestled down between the fine bones of his wrist. Chloe hones in on it without applying force. Skirts the pad of her finger over it in light, lazy circles. "Forget About Nate for once."

Of all the things she could say in that moment, "Forget about Nate" is probably the worst.

With a snarl, Harry shoves her against the wall. He doesn't care that the stones might cut her or scrape her through her shirt, doesn't care that Lazarevic's henchmen and the strange monkey people somewhere behind them. It's another world out there, and one he simply couldn't care less about.

His mouth covered hers in a brutal facsimile of a kiss. There was nothing gentle or seductive or plying about it, just his hard lips on hers making demands of her mouth, her body. His fingers slackened on the gun, and his other hand grabbed at her shoulder, not quite shaking free of her hold as he held her to the wall, pinned between it and his body. His teeth scraped over her lower lip, bit down and held for a second. His tongue swept over the bite to inflame instead of soothe. Pressing closer to her, he shoved his thigh between her legs, forcing her to all but plaster herself to the wall.

It was, admittedly, a gamble. Unstable as he is by now, she shouldn't be so surprised to feel the sharp dig of stone in her back, of his teeth cutting into her lip enough to taste bitterness on her tongue. It's the press of his leg between her thighs-- hard and sudden enough to spark a jolt of sensation low, low in her belly-- that also sparks the urge to abandon diplomacy and go right for his throat instead.

Gun be damned, he's going to remember exactly why Chloe Frazer isn't meant to be taken lightly.

A point she makes by bearing down on those weak wrist bones with the pad of her thumb.

Open RP: Smutty nonsense

s o b true ok

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what is verb tense idek

A MYSTERY TO EVERYONE I usually go with present but if you need past that is ok c:

no no it's fine :3 i'd been writing in past before tagging and didn't even top to think. braiiiinz

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