albinomilksnake | Open RP: Smutty nonsense

Something in his stills a little at the question - a prey animal sensing something is onto its scent. Is this the termination dialogue? Sounds a bit like it, honestly. Like if he answers one way, he'll get a neat severance package and if he answers another she'll just cut off his head for his trouble.

Charles shrugs. He fiddles idly with the very nice watch at his wrist. "I like the travel, yeah." And he snorts, all light as he settles back into the chair back. "And it's never bloody boring, is it?" Best to keep it clean and straightforward.

And there's a knife in his jacket's interior pocket. He's been careful about it, he thinks - seriously doubts she has any idea its there. If she really wants to come at him, he's ready enough for it.

She'd be stupid to think, smart as he is, that he hasn't at least caught hold of frayed strands at the edge of the tapestry that is the larger picture in this scenario.

Then again, she's being careless about it. Sentimentality, maybe, why she doesn't just listen to Talbot and press a knife through the thin skin of his throat without warning. Why she'd waited to latch onto these orders till they were alone. In private.

"Do you remember how long it's been since you started?"

He opens his mouth to answer-- then pauses, the thing on his tongue slipping away before he can fully recall what it was. Because the answer he'd wanted to give was three months, maybe four even. But that's not right, is it? If he thinks on it, he's been on enough flights and drawn up enough itineraries and bashed enough skulls in to fill twice that. Maybe longer.

There is a frown forming, slow and sturdy in the lines of his face. His lips purse, drawn into a narrow line, and rather than answer he simply looks at her: steady. Waiting for her other shoe to drop maybe. Something's off, but he can't put his finger on it. Even the lapse in time feel like-- like maybe he just wasn't paying attention. Normal? Hard to get his head around anyway.

So he's gotten in a little deeper than he meant to; what's her point?

It's the silence that tips things well past the point of pretense: Frazer tugs the pin from her hair, lets it fall to rest in pressed angles against her shoulders. The heat and humidity of Africa making perfection nearly impossible.

Amongst other things.

When she turns on her heel to face him, she sets the small of her back against that high table, watching him for all those subtle, telling shifts in expression: "A year, Cutter. It's been a year."

Their anniversary, so to speak.

Edited 2014-07-26 10:03 (UTC)

Which earns an abrupt, sharp little noise from him - a snort. It's very nearly a laugh right in her face as he undoes the clip of his watch to loosen the joined strap. "Piss off, you're having a go at me."

A fucking year. There's not way on god's green earth he's been puttering around in her shadow for so long. He has better things to do than bow and scrape to a few arseholes like Frazer and Talbot for twelve months, no matter how good the payout on the back end promises to be.

There's something bitter on the back of her tongue that crawls up in the wake of his laughter. He has every right to buck the notion off given how often she's pressed the needle into his skin...how often Talbot's stabbed it in till it bled.

But that doesn't make her feel any less offended, illogical as her emotions are from too much training; too little sanity.

"On the contrary, I am attempting to save your life." That's a favor, isn't it? Protecting what's hers-- his continued survival-- the sort of thing he ought to be grateful for given how little he's worth.

"Right." There's no missing the skepticism there. He turns the watch on his wrist, sliding it free from his hand across the broad angle of his knuckles and then pockets it, absently rubbing the place where it had sat all day between his thumb and forefinger. "And trying to convince me how long it's been does that how? If this is the part where you're supposed to be turning me loose for a job badly done, this is a piss poor performance review."

Because sometimes showing her teeth has worked in the past. He doesn't put up with bullshit, that's his modus operandi. It's why Talbot hired him in the first place, he thinks. So might as well play the card now - it's the only one he knows for certain. The rest of the deck is, strangely enough, mostly ambiguous marks. Like expecting Old English and finding Latin and he hasn't quite switched mental gears yet.

It's a card that saved him when the noose was slipped around his neck by someone that was more than a little detached. Someone that was willing to tug at the slightest opportunity. But here, now, with Frazer's own security on the line and him snorting at the idea, it doesn't do him any favors: he's played a one-pair against a royal flush, and suddenly the coldness bleeds out of her expression. Leaves behind something livid instead.

The distance between them is crossed, easily.

"Think hard." A pointless suggestion, even as she fingers a dart slipped out from the bracelet at her wrist: though she stopped erasing his memories, the worst of it would only sit as a sort of half-formed haze at the edge of his mind. A pale, transparent dream. She sets a hand against the chair back behind him, drawing their profiles closer. "Think about how strange it is that the weeks went by so fast. Think about how many times I had you pinned between my legs in the back of that town car-- or how many times you pressed your cock up against Talbot's just for the sake of getting inside me."

His fingers twitch to the lapel of his jacket before she's two strides closer, though he doesn't quite reach for the knife - just sets his fingers there, absent, careful. It could look more like a rebuff, him putting a physical barrier between himself and her as she eat up the distance between them and as he sinks low, low into the cushion of the chair.

The lines on his face doesn't shift; it's all creeping bullshit, something picking at the edge of what's actually there but that doesn't mean it's got anything to do with reality. Charlie's jaw's all set, sharp and dangerous - she might be over him, but he's a big man. Stubborn when he wants to be or needs to be or when it's the only thing he has left (right now it's that or a knife and one of them probably blows his cover).

"I wouldn't touch that wanker with marigolds on," he growls back up at her, the line of his hand shifting away from his lapel and abruptly catching at her shoulder, her neck - the line of his thumb hard against her throat for a half beat. He doesn't push her back, but his elbow locks like he might.

But Frazer presses in against it. Lets his thumb suppress blood flow, jabbing in close to a nerve that aches in the back of her skull. It's rare to see her so uncomposed-- rarer still that she's bared her fangs rather than simply stabbing the needle into his throat, but she wants the severity of her accusations to sink in through his skull. Wants him to feel her inching closer as the barrier that is his temper slowly settles.

And then the dart is at his neck: sharpened metal against skin without pressure or significant pain. The last little piece of the puzzle; his last chance to realize it without her forcing it down his throat, literally.

"You have."

He's seen her use the darts. Of course he has. There was an arms dealer in Turkey who'd he'd watched her convince to kill their partner, a frail little old man who'd wanted nothing to do with Katherine Marlowe's order. Dirty business.

And here it was, a sharp point at his jugular. There's the sudden taste of cotton in his mouth, psychosomatic and familiar like the smell of a friend's coat. She hasn't even dosed him and his tongue feels heavy, some prickling automatic response to the promise of what follows. His mind might not be certain, but his body is and for a moment, he doesn't quite grasp what's happened - only that she's there, over him and dangerous, a needle on the verge of being pressed raw into his throat -, and then he realizes he's half hard in his trousers just from the threat.

He tightens his hand then, fingers shifting over and closing sharply on her throat. If she sticks him, he'll be damned sure to break her neck in the same motion. "Well then?" There's something sick and breathless in it, his stomach rolling at the concept (because it's not real, not really; he can believe it and not feel it because the logic connects but he doesn't remember anything beyond shaky outlines and the dig of fingers, something that tastes like sex on the back of his tongue. "You're going to kill me, yeah?"

She ought to.

Overdose him in the split-second that it takes for him to finish the job of snapping delicate vertebrae, let the bloody lines of their intersecting careers end here in a clean, repulsively expensive hotel. There's something fitting about the idea compared to the grit and filth tracked along from where they've been - what they've done.

The closest thing she'll ever have to love with a man that couldn't possibly despise her more.

"I told you," she starts, setting her knee between his legs to rock up into the strain of his half-hard prick as the needle withdraws-- with space to spare as a show of good faith, "I'm trying to save your life."

"Right." It's not a question, except for how it is. Charlie's fingers stay tight, grip sure despite the insistent slide of her knee and the carefully drawn back needle point. There's some release of tension in the joint of his elbow, but it's minor and negligible - give him enough reason and it'd be quick to come back. "You'll have to spell that one out for me, love."

Because god only knows what it is that she's aiming for beyond brushing up against the line of his cock through thin suit fabric.

If she has a plan in this, it's distant enough to be invisible to her conscious mind as she sinks into that space between them like something liquid-- all deliberate flow dragged by gravity-- to scuff her profile across his. Bets on instinct or need, training or the pale, pale withered horse that would be sincere want.

Sincerity through words is a long lost skill.

Edited 2014-07-27 08:50 (UTC)

Its only by his own merit she can even do it - the line of her profile against his is demands he loosen his grip on her neck, that he let his elbow bend. But he does it, he lets her: the press of her nose against his cheek, the scud of her breathing near his mouth but nowhere close enough to touch.

He doesn't know what she means by it, but he does know something low in him heats and quickens at her winding nearer. It's her knee between his legs, sure, but he can taste her breath and it tugs at a dark uncalculated bit of him that he doesn't have a name for and-- Charlie shifts his fingers at her throat, turns his face incrementally to hers - a wild, unbidden moment of curiosity or give.

It's good training.

Which is the only inch she needs to sink her nails deep into that extra mile: mouth hungry at his own and behind it the scrape of sharp, feral teeth. Tongue. Reciprocates the dig of his turned fingers with hers pressed up under his jaw just for the sake of feeling shifting muscle as he swallows. Inhales. Sets his teeth or rides the current of her kiss.

Give and take, push and pull; they've done this a thousand times, but never with clarity.

Probably never with clarity.

It's the first - the line of his jaw dropping as he balks back from the contact, the click of his teeth as a barrier against the press of his tongue and the hint of her own own teeth; repulsed - and then it's the second: a shift in the line of his profile and the heat at the edge of his breath as he exhales that sucked in irritation into her mouth. As his fingers at her neck give. As he lets her kiss him or takes it from her, the weight of her in the palm of his hand as he opens his mouth to her. It's erratic in a different way, clear and tentative. He doesn't know what he's doing or why, but it's not because he's swimming in the drug. It's because her mouth is warm. Because there's something familiar that sticks and digs. Because she smells like something sweet and there's no lying about the fact that he's thought about it (lucidly, even): what she tastes like and how she kisses and the line of her body curving under his mouth.

It's like taking a hit on purpose.

The chair isn't big enough. Small and slight as she is, with only her thigh rolling in between his legs on the corner of it (smooth wood biting into the bone of her knee where the plush leather cushion stops) Cutter's mass-- stuck somewhere between rejecting the idea and bleeding right into it-- takes up the rest.

If she hadn't already tucked the dart in against her palm, if he was drugged and bucking up against skin through cloth, she'd pull him out of it without hesitation. But hesitation here risks snapping a fragile line, and Frazer shelves the idea. Works her thumb into the soft flesh beside his vocal cords like she means to hurt him (she does) before it traces vulnerable contours down into the shadow of his collarbone. Before passing his chest and the fabric covering it to rest squarely across the seam of his waistband.

And from there it's all abrupt: the kiss is abandoned-- her hold on him is abandoned-- cold tile against bare skin as she sinks down into what space she forces with her palms braced on the inside of each of his thighs, mouthing off hot across seams.

Across him.

Only that's stretching some line of tension thin too: her sliding down between his knees, the line of her bare shoulders there and her hands moving at the inside of his thighs - it narrows something in him, flat and still and just as dangerous as it had been with that needle at his neck and his hand around hers. Because this isn't better but it isn't worse, the skim of her nose across the fabric of his slacks and the heat of her mouth-- he starts at the feel of it, not sure if he's pulling away or pressing into it as his fingers find the arm of the chair and dig in sharp.

This isn't what he's here to do, and yet here they are. Something low digs at him, some urge to push her out from between his knees and step over her, make for the door or-- or he doesn't know what. Instead he breathes in, sharp and pitched, some wire hot heat rising in him. There's no give there, no encouragement, but he's not pulling free and that should worry him.

Open RP: Smutty nonsense

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