as_damaged | ☤ twenty-three

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☤ twenty-three

[voice;]

[For a moment there is nothing but quiet panting, someone trying to catch their breath. When she speaks it's in a low tone, stumbling over words. She's clearly just this side of a full panic.]

I figured I'd be fine as long as I just stayed in today, but I guess someone figured out I was at home. Every now and then I can-- [She pauses, and if you listen closely you can hear a heavy pounding in the background.] Can hear them trying to get in. I keep hoping they'll get bored and give up on me but so far...

[Cameron laughs quietly, obviously on edge.]

Midnight can't come quick enough... and it's not even Halloween yet. Can't wait to see what that brings....

[ooc; IT'S A TRAP. come and save her, she will try to eat you, and given that she's been taking self-defense lessons she might have more of a shot than otherwise expected >D If you are okay with being bitten/eaten/killed and tossed in the fridge for later munching, please to let me know ♥ ALSO PLEASE FORGIVE LATE POSTING I HAD A TEST. SOB.]

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He's really not as stupid as he looks.

...Except when it comes to her. There's a moment of surprise at how casual the offer is, not that there's anything more to read into it, but he's been lucky to get more than a monosyllable thrown his way recently. If he'd known it would take cannibals to set them back on an even keel he might even have welcomed the curse this morning.

He's optimistic. He's tried to quit, but just keeps failing. "Thanks."

So he follows her into the relatively narrow confines of the apartment kitchen without a second thought, bag left carelessly behind at the door.

Just as planned. Or at least hoped for. Unfortunately for him, when she's most inclined to return his feelings she's least inclined to act on them; it's half the reason he gets a cold shoulder half the time. In the long run, sort of, the silent treatment is a good sign; but only insofar as he doesn't know it.

Now she's willing to use whatever works to get what she wants, and she smiles to herself as she pours a glass of wine, expression hidden as she turns to hand it to him.

"I appreciate it," she confides, tone guarded and eyes not quite meeting his. If the rest of her story were true, that would be as well; she resents the knight in shining armor act, but his loyalty is as endearing as it is infuriating.

Coy isn't really her style, not without some ulterior motive. The kind he learned to enjoy during that brief spell when an innocent look from under her lashes lead to encounters in elevators and carousel carts that he wouldn't have even considered without those feminine wiles. So he knows enough to be aware that he should be suspicious now, except that she knocked him back so recently and so hard that it feels like asking to be kicked while he's down.

She's grateful. It's nicer than a lot of the other emotions she's directed his way lately. He takes the glass and smiles around a sip.

"They didn't need me at the hospital," he explains, making his rush over here sound like a casual stroll to save her feeling like the damsel, "we can turn the TV on until it's over."

A glance at the wine as the flavour has a moment to sit on his palate, then he raises his eyebrows, "Is this Chianti?"

Edited 2009-10-18 21:44 (UTC)

"Do you like it?"

Question answering question, a sly suggestion that she's more concerned with his pleasure than anything else. He should certainly be suspicious, but is there room in his mind for suspicion when she's standing this close?

And she is. Exactly how that happened is anyone's guess-- just a carefully careless step in his direction has brought her nearer than she's been since they fell apart, and though she isn't making any advances (yet,) she seems comfortable with this uncomfortable proximity. Cameron smirks, slightly, looking up at him.

"It's," he's going to say ironic, but all that comes out is a gently affirmative, "Mm." Another drink disguises the need to swallow around that lump of uncertainty in his throat. Whatever make the wine is, it's warming, at least enough to be blamed for that very faint flush across his cheeks. He shouldn't be this easily lost, no matter how mixed the signals might be.

Running his tongue across wine-stained lips, he looks back down at her from under his lashes, curious and unsure.

"Hi," he murmurs, soft, and lets the question of what she's doing sit obvious but unsaid. The explanation of what she wants is going to have to come from her side. Understanding her isn't always his strong point. Giving in, he's far better at.

And they'll be more mixed in the morning, less mixed in a few minutes. If nothing else, for once Cameron knows precisely what she wants, and she's ready to take as much as he'll give.

She admires him like this for a moment, though the hunger in her gaze isn't the accustomed sort of affection. And when she stretches and leans to kiss his cheek, she's testing; tasting, savoring, trying to decide where to begin.

Accustomed affection? He's never had enough of it to get used to, let alone to pick apart its intricacies now. Not when she's pressing in against him in what a vestal virgin could tell isn't simple gratitude.

He should stop her.

His hand goes to her shoulder, and then the other ruins all good intentions by moving to her waist. Still, he tips his head back. Out of reach, just.

"Maybe we should talk about this?"

"No,"

she replies airily, lifting her hands to tug at his collar. Cheeks come highly recommended, but time enough for that later if he'd rather start elsewhere. The lips pressed against his throat are for his sake, to distract and mislead. The tongue sliding down, tracing the muscles underneath the skin, is for hers. So is the shove she gives his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders.

The silent prayers Chase utters in times like these are not intended for the ears of any higher power. He'd more likely be struck down for the contents of his racing mind, and if instinct would just take control from rational thought then maybe he'd have a hope of getting his arms untangled from the sleeves they're trapped in.

"There are," he makes nervous excuses, giving her something she can latch onto so he doesn't have to ask are you sure? this time, "Cameron, there are cannibals outside."

The things she finds erotic are frankly terrifying, but not nearly so much as how easily he goes along.

She ignores that, too rapt in the scent of fresh meat, the racing pulse beneath his skin, to roll her eyes. Were she thinking clearly, the way he's responding to this would call into question her assumption that he's still angry, that she's forfeit any chance she still had. But, of course, she isn't; Cameron isn't thinking anything, lips searching along his shoulder, fingertips and short, well-kept nails digging into his sides, having worked her way to the last of the buttons.

And at last, starved and sick with anticipation, she bites down on his shoulder, the thick muscle above his collarbone caught up in her jaw as fully as she can manage.

He's working on freeing at least one arm from linen entanglement as her lips press down against her shoulder. One arm to hold her back not from devouring him in the way she intends, but the way he suspects she'll regret in the morning. He can't deny wanting her, but he wants the aftermath he can already envisage much less. They can't keep up this cycle. If it was meaningless she wouldn't be so angry with him afterwards.

Hand finally tugged from his cuff, he gently begins the process of nudging her back. "We should stop, you--"

Though not nudging her back enough that he avoids the clamp down of teeth into his flesh, much too hard to be pleasant. "Ow, bloody hell. That's not funny."

The good news is, this is meaningless, and she won't be angry at him after. The bad news is, she's literally interested in finding out how he tastes, and now that he's trying to put space between them, any facade of trying to please is gone.

She grabs his wrist, her grasp stronger and better place than one might expect from such a slight woman, and strains toward him again, lips pulled back from her teeth. It's a grotesque and uncanny sight, and if there was any doubt that she isn't joking, the fact that she's trying to take another bite out of him should dispel it.

He thought he'd seen her snarl before, but it was nothing like this. This puts him in mind of the hyenas at Melbourne zoo, slathering and wild. For a moment he can just look, bewildered, at that pretty mouth turned gaping maw.

Luckily for him, reality isn't too tardy about sinking in. "Oh hell," he growls, with the realisation that he's just been played two ways. Her grip on him is far tighter than it should be, but he manages to twist enough within it to present her with some solid arm muscle, rather than a spot near pressure points and arteries he'd sooner keep untouched.

"Cameron, you don't want to do this," he tries, grasping for something as he stumbles back against the cabinets.

"I do," she breathes, her ardor undiminished by his words. The other hand, the one that hasn't moved from his side, curls in place, fingers digging between his ribs, nails seeking purchase in his flesh. She's all twisting limbs and flashing eyes, breathing heavily as she tries to get the upper hand once more.

As though that weren't assurance enough, she bends to snap at the arm she holds, still straining towards him. It's easy to see why he'd have misunderstood, why her act was so believable. She wants him against her, under her, in her; it's a parody of where they've been before. But for the first time he's right, and Cameron only wants him for his body.

For all he's aware that she's cursed, there's still a small part of him that finds itself offended as she sinks her teeth back into him. A small part being vastly overridden by the part that's in pain.

"Fuck--" and although he's squirming under her, there's a concerted effort (through gritted teeth) not to pull away. While she's occupied, maybe he can just reach...

There. The syringe pen he'd tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, just to be on the safe side. Forcing his jaw to unclench enough to pull the cap off between his teeth, he looks down almost apologetically at her bent head.

"Sorry," he says, aiming for the most obvious patch of muscle to inject. It's lucky she wears thin pants. "You're going to be sore in the morning."

Having 'caught' her prey, she's more or less oblivious to his movement-- lucky for Chase he's not particularly easy to take a chunk out of, though chances are he's bleeding beneath her ministrations. As clever and rational as Cameron has been thus far, her patience and apparently her sentience has diminished with distance.

She stiffens and straightens at the needleprick, shooting him a wild, accusatory look that almost recalls sanity. Pulling away, she takes a wavery step backward, as though she's not quite sure what bit her. Or maybe she's just shocked to have been outsmarted.

Before she can gather her wits and poise to strike again, she sways, and begins to tumble.

It has to be to his credit that he's not so busy checking for blood to step forward and catch her before she hits the floor, still wary of getting exposed flesh too close.

"On the other hand," he comments, kneeling to lay her down before rubbing at the marks on his arm and shoulder. Think what she could do with sharpened canines. "Not as sore as I am."

There are better ways to wake up than this, sprawled unceremoniously on the sofa with the stale tang of blood on a dry tongue. For a while all she can do is blink against the light, disoriented and hazy from the drugs and the incongruous memory of being cursed.

She manages, shakily, to shove herself upright, stomach lurching from the motion and the memory of what she'd been trying to do when Chase managed to sedate her. Clever thinking; there are, after all, worse ways to wake up after a curse.

Hands over her face, all she can manage is a low, disgusted sound. Whether it's a reaction to her current state or her previous one is anyone's guess.

Chase is settled in the armchair across the way, looking a lot more comfortable than she does, despite the second hypodermic he's expertly flipping between the fingers of one hand. There's always a chance a curse won't settle for a 24 hour stint. He watches her as she adjusts to the waking world, because he did essentially just roofie her, and there's no guarantee she won't be mad about it, even if he's the one bearing the worst of the injury under his now safely buttoned shirt.

Two wine glasses and a glass of water sit on the table between them. Chase leans forward to nudge the water closer her way, asking the obvious question, "How are you feeling?"

"Not great."

Though muffled by her hands, she's perfectly comprehensible. Her fingers curl into her palms, uncovering tired eyes. She stares at him briefly-- surveying the damage, maybe, or wishing she could forfeit consciousness again. Though she suspects the latter wouldn't make her feel any better; sedation itself is somehow exhausting.

She doesn't reach for the glass until he's leaned back in his seat, kept by pride or embarrassment from saying thank you.

There's no visible damage, only the faintest hint of Chase trying not to smile at her attempts to banish sleepiness. "You should get to bed. I only stayed to make sure you weren't in the mood for a midnight snack."

He should be allowed one little joke, right? It's not particularly dangerous territory, particularly as Cameron looks more in need of some hot cocoa and fluffy pillows than a mask and straitjacket right now. "Sedative will give you a bitch of a headache if you don't let your body sleep it off."

She feels a bit better, not being able to see her handiwork-- though he's not unmarked, she knows that. That's one part of living here Cameron hasn't adapted to-- waking up having done things you'd never do, living with actions you can neither deny nor take responsibility for.

Maybe she really is overtired, because she almost smiles back. Almost. She places the glass down a little too heavily, sparing a faint scowl at the thick clank.

"Yes, doctor," she sighs, with a minimal amount of venom in her tone. In fact, with a bit of fondness. She bit him; he'd have been well within his rights to leave her passed out on the kitchen floor. But of course, he never would. He didn't. She owes a little civility for that.

"How much did you give me, anyway?"

"Ten miligrams." He does grin at that, because he could have taken out Cameron and a horse that just ate her with the dose. "Better safe than sorry. You might want to sit leaning a little to your left for a while."

He pushes up from the chair, working out a crick in his neck and testing how much he can move his shoulder without feeling the bruise. Then he offers an arm to her. "Need a hand?"

She flinches a little, wide-eyed. No wonder she's been out this long. Though in his place she'd probably have gone the safe route, too-- adrenaline is a powerful thing, and once bitten is twice wary.

Steadying herself, she tries to stand on her own, lips quirking down a little when she can't. Her facade of helplessness seems ironic now, as she takes his hand to pull herself up. Cameron sways, but steadies herself, letting go and managing to stand alone. Damned if she'll lean on him.

"I'll see you to the door?"

Of course she can't stand to hold onto him. Catching back a sigh, he edges round the table to put his hand just under her elbow. Not quite supporting, just there.

"Why don't I see you to yours?", he indicates the bedroom, because he'd be happier knowing she hadn't cracked her skull on the furniture before he leaves her. "I wanted to ask you something, anyway."

☤ twenty-three

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[come in to my parlor] | some time later

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