albinomilksnake | Open RP: Smutty nonsense

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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