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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Hospitals are full of sick people, it can't be that appetizing.

[If her amusement sounds strained, it's only because she's hiding impatience.]

Predators always take out the limping gazelle. [Well he's out in the street now, and sounding harassed as a result. He's not particularly looking forward to taking on the supposedly ravening crowd in her apartment building.]

Predatory or not, the affected are still human. Possessed of human intellect. Who's to say they won't be pickier eaters?

[She is, after all. There are no crowds-- probably no one at all, the affected having headed out to redder pastures, the unaffected holed up safely away from prying teeth. Chase can chalk it up to luck.]

If they were thinking this through they'd be going after someone who weighs more than ninety pounds soaking wet.

[Sadly Chase is familiar with the usual state of his luck, and as such takes his time entering the building, the metal pole from an IV extension not as reassuring in his hands as it should be. He manages to keep the startled yelp when the elevator dings down to an undignified squeak. What is he walking into?]

Still knocking?

[That gets a derisive huff. Well, better not to press her luck, have him considering what people would do if they were thinking this through.]

Might be clear, I haven't heard anything in a while.

[She hasn't thrown anything at the wall in a while.]

[That's good, he wouldn't want to have to duck on his way into the lion's den. His breath is coming embarrassingly quickly as he makes it into the hallway.]

Alright. Then you'll know this one is me.

[Knock Knock, or so the joke goes.]

There's a clatter of locks being undone, and she cracks the door open to peek for a moment-- mainly for effect, because if there actually was anyone, he'd certainly be knocking much harder-- before pulling it wide to let him in.

"All clear?"

Had there been anyone in the building Robert Chase would be looking distinctly less composed where he's framed in the doorway. As things stand he resembles nothing more than a rabbit caught in oncoming headlights, albeit a rabbit with a makeshift crowbar and supply bag thrown over its shoulder. Deserted or not, the place is creepy, and he makes short work of taking control of the door to get it relocked with himself on the (presumed) safer side.

"I left the bodies in the next hallway," he tells her, passing off that metal pole into her more delicate hands to let his twitchy ones work the lock. He's stayed here enough to be used to how everything works.

Back's turned for only a second, though, and then he's exhaling relief, even smiling at her. He did good, didn't he?

"Looks like everyone decided to eat out after all."

"Good, I don't want to have to vacuum."

She risks a small smile, a little shy. He knows now, how much she hates to be in this position. He doesn't know she's in it by choice. Awkwardly turning the pole she sets it aside, leaning it against the wall-- out of the way, just out of reach.

The locks will slow him, too, if he decides to bolt; everything seems to be in her favor at the moment, and she relishes the sense of control it gives her.

"I guess I could've just waited it out." She doesn't say should have. She's allowed to be glad for the company, right?

He knows she doesn't enjoy playing the damsel in the tower, but there's still something giddily pleased about taking the role of rescuer. Even with no visible threat. Until this point he hadn't thought, only moved, and it's now that the adrenaline and a sense of his own achievement catch up, flushing his cheeks.

"Just because they're gone for now doesn't mean they're gone. Better to wait it out with a bag full of hypodermics."

And, conspiratorially, he lets said bag swing off his shoulder onto the chair blocking the door. Obviously he didn't sign those out of the pharmacy.

She arches a brow. Clever boy. Too clever by far, for her purposes, and she'll need to make sure he leaves them there. Unfortunately for Cameron, hunger leaves her inclined to be a little heavyhanded. She shrugs.

"Well, if we're stuck I may as well offer you something to drink."

And with that she trails into the kitchen. Which is where this is all meant to end, of course.

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.

voice;

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[come in to my parlor]

[come in to my parlor]

[come in to my parlor]

[come in to my parlor]

[come in to my parlor]

[come in to my parlor]

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[come in to my parlor]

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[come in to my parlor]

[come in to my parlor]

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[come in to my parlor]

[come in to my parlor]

[come in to my parlor]

[come in to my parlor]

[come in to my parlor]

[come in to my parlor]