[She doesn't make it all the way to turned around because she is currently resting her forehead against the painted wall with her eyes closed. It's the least vertiginous she's felt for hours. But... there's enough room for him to see, right? It's fine. She gropes back blindly to take the clip out of her hair, tossing the plastic thing somewhere into the dark before drawing the rest of her to one side, out of the way of the top hooks. It covers about half of the line work tattooed there, still red around the edges, raised to the touch. It was only put down yesterday, which was really where she had taken off to, not camping.
This isn't the sort of dress you're meant to go home alone in.
[Yes, he's too busy focusing on the hooks to notice anything else, although a natural aptitude toward delicacy of touch mean that the hooks dislodge from their respective eyes in a neat procession, black fabric tugging apart to reveal more of the tattooed tracework beneath. Then it's impossible to overlook, although it's initially confusing. This wasn't here before? He rests his fingertips against the red, heated skin, then draws over the top of the linework.]
[Her answer is flat, asking his help wasn't a ploy to get his attention, or to get him to stay, she doesn't think that way. She's told him much more bluntly and directly in the past what she wants, and she doesn't really like playing the coquette, not with people who truly interest her. She didn't care for that particular brand of insincerity. This wasn't to show him the marks down her spine either, although she's not protesting, she'd have wanted him to see it eventually.
She turns her head, eyes still closed, temple resting against the cool surface. Her back flexes under his touch anyway, it's pleasant whether he stays or goes and there's a reason she chose this space to mark: it's not just the back of her neck that she finds particularly sensitive, it's all the way down her spine. The needles puncturing over and over again had been interesting and enjoyable, all the hands that will do exactly what he's doing will be too.]
[He's never been in doubt as to what she wants, although the reasons for it aren't always as clear. He used to think it would be a way to make him as disposable as the rest, an intimate act of distancing herself from any other connection between them. If they'd met later than they did, he might have shared the same aim. Now he suspects it's less simple - although, it's sex, there's always a degree of simplicity involved in the desire.
He bows his head, mussed, damp blonde against her shoulder as the last few hooks come free.]
[She holds still when she feels the fabric finally release all the way, waiting. The top had been tight enough and her bust small enough that there isn't a bra strap in the back to divide the mark down her spine.]
[His considered assessment. It's not for him to like it or dislike it - it's not offputting - although his personal preference would be a smaller statement. There's not much, though, that Carla seems to say quietly. He wraps his arms round her waist where he stands, curled in against her back. It's not leaving, but moving also feels like an effort when this is comfortable for now.]
[(Barbet always did tell her that she wasn't any good at subtlety.)
It's not really in her nature to ever truly be content, but Chase isn't leaving and she can feel him against her back through the gape in her dress. That's not nothing, and she lets herself settle there for the time being--(Listening to his breathing close to her ear, noticing the pulse in his chest.) Her head lolls to the side, shoulders and neck relaxed in a way that probably isn't normal when he's around to agitate her.
She's comfortable and willing to be still, up to a point. Barbet trained patience in to her, never liked how abrupt and pushy she could be, tried to make her appreciate their physicality, when they had it, as part of his art. She never could. Even when he'd sketch her, she'd just want him to stop, to let her touch him, to put his hands on her.
Carla's lifts up to the doctor's cheek when she turns her head. She won't be surprised at all if he balks from her kiss, it wouldn't be the first time and she'd hardly imagine it to be the last. He lives to be frustrating, she's certain of it.]
[He could make a similar statement about her, if living weren't so very contrary to her plans. But, for now, he chooses the path of least resistance against her mouth, breath hot and grape sweet when his lips part. He'd once told her this had been a liberty to take, on learning of the dulled contagion in her blood. But it's been past concern for a long time and, even then, he never completely managed to abstain. Something addictive in his personality, his heredity, that buzzes like a moth around anything with the potential to burn. He kisses her back, instigating contact again after a break for breath and to look at her, dizzily blue.
Still, though at some point his hand has found its way through the gape of her dress to clasp against the flat of her stomach and slips steadily upwards, there's no move on his part to press forward, or break the barrier of her doorway.]
[She doesn't generally find this tolerable, to be touched with so little ability to touch back. At the moment, however, her mind is slow moving and dazed, her anxiety a low murmur that is very easy to ignore. Her lungs fill under his hands, her fingertips catch hold of a lock of his hair and tug lightly. As much as she's annoyed to have been drinking, she likes the sticky taste it's left, tilting her head farther back to pursue it in him.
She knows she isn't virulent, but she remembers what it was like when she was. The only way Barbet would let her mouth this close was after dousing her with chemicals first. Then he would always act like he didn't understand how he made her feel so humiliated, why she was desperate for any affection that didn't come predicated by his work.]
[Affection. For the doctor now using the corner of the doorframe as a prop to hold him while he holds her, that may be the better part of what's happening here. Lust is a quicker burn, though it's not absent. This, slow and warm and lazy is something other, a degree of comfort seeking that can't often be acknowledged between the spikes. Maybe it's just the champagne but there's the faint tracery of a smile the next time breath becomes a necessary interrupting, and his hands go from exploratory to making a clumsy attempt at turning her toward him, just so he can rest his forehead more comfortably against hers.]
[She's better able to make that turn now that she's out of her heels, another piece of assistance on a long list of things she hasn't said thank you for. She's not really about to start now. Maybe not all that willing to acknowledge that she's been lulled into something slow and warm and lazy either--(It's not her first time, even if he had teased her about inexperience.) It was safer to be angry, to use his hair as a rein and imagine how fragile he was under his arrogance. But she can watch his stupidly long eyelashes from this distance, can smell the soap he used and would rather feel out the heat radiating from his skin, palms open across his shoulders, heavy against his neck.
They both look drunk, disheveled in a doorway with swollen mouths and pinked skin. It's a different sort of predication that she's not blind to, but she'd rather he stayed.]
You're staying?
[Her pitch has gotten throaty, breath heavier under her sternum. She'd have preferred that statement sounded like less of a question.]
[They both are drunk, and mussed with the length of the day, something Chase is a little too aware of - the weight of his own arms around her, his own head when he tips his chin back to look up and meet her eyes. He sighs and it's warm but it's weary.]
I'm tired.
[There's no tone of excusing himself from this entanglement in that. If anything his arms, heavy, languid, wrap her closer.]
[Because her bed is significantly nearer than his is and not at all because she is enamored with him and has little inclination to be let go of. She nudges her nose against his, a lazy incitement not to get distracted and wander off from her.]
There's room.
[Which translates to something she might regret upon reflection, but there is a very minimal amount of that in progress at the moment.]
Well if there's [And the last word is lost somewhere between teeth and tongue, his and hers, but it sounds like it just might be room... He shuffles her back, finally past the door, a couple of steps before he remembers to be careful of wherever she's dropped her heels. And somebody should get the door closed for propriety's sake - though he'd been caught in the hall in nothing but a pair of half-zipped jeans, it was never the most prim of starts.]
[She's not much for propriety, really, but her fingertips at least catch the edge of the door. It swings most of the way closed, a delicately-minded princess would really have to try if she wanted to be scandalized. Carla's not willing to break away to get it the rest of the way, besides.
She hadn't been doing all that way moving forward, and shuffling backwards with the distraction of his mouth might be a disaster if she doesn't find something to sit down on in short order. Her hands catch in the loose fabric around his hips to help steer him along. The space Saya has designated to her is largely unfurnished. Carla really isn't much of an interior decorator. The apartment she'd shared with someone else had come with all of its pieces, that was why she'd chosen it. Here, though, Saya has supplied a bed and not much else has accumulated around it, not besides a strange little shadow-play of a forest that sits in a windowsill and a few things atop a dresser.
She's still reserved on committing to it, knows she doesn't want to be at the apartment, but doesn't always trust this place either. Didn't need to. Chase and Saya would let her into their beds. Karl had a place for her to sleep at Phantomhive, and Isabela made no complaints about having her on the Iris for a few nights. Bed to bed to bed, rarely to her own. The one she considers her own is where Rex sleeps, by himself, waiting. She's scattered. Her anchor is gone and she holds on to what she can, but there isn't really 'home.' Even the campsite makes a better play at the title than here.]
[It took Chase a good six months to accidentally call the Warehouse 'home', and even now he's unsure of the transience of his tenure, spending days off by the beach with wood varnish and power tools, working on a place that's been liveable since May. He has his own apartment standing empty, steeping in memories he can't quite pin there, its contents gradually osmosing from bedrooms and cabinets there to find themselves around Satya's realm (and that's the thing, comfortable as it is, this whole place is her parlour and its residents the favoured flies).
His own room isn't much more furnished than this one, just an echo in another corridor. There's the same clear path to the bed, which helps him now, all but lifting her the last few backward steps but only stealing the ground under her on the last, to pull her down with him.]
[She's going to kill him for sweeping her off her feet one day, really she is. For now, her open dress is falling forward off of her shoulders and a length of her hair is stuck against her lips. But heavy-lidded and intent on him, she ignores it there in favor of smearing the last of her lipstick down his throat.]
[That will teach him for showering. He can feel the stain, waxy against the line of his pulse, but makes a soft sound of protest before she can trail that mouth lower. His hands go to her shoulders, pulling her back toward him and plucking the loose straps of her dress to slide it down her arms while it's convenient.]
[There's an amused look, but she doesn't pause to think on it any more than that, just slips her arms free of her dress and wriggles the rest of the way out of it before it ends up tangled around her entirely. She had been polite enough to put on a pair of panties before going to have dinner with Eames (we're sure he'd be relieved to know) and that's what's left on her, black cotton low on her hips.
She presses her fingertips down over his mouth, just as stained, dragging color off to the side, but she's perfectly willing to remove them and keep to the established priority. The taste of the champagne has faded, but she supposes that he's alright on his own.]
[No, he doesn't protest about the press of her fingers (and won't about the stain on his lips, at least until morning. It does stop him from remarking that this is better, not mumbling words through teeth involved in closing down lightly over the first joint of her middle and index finger. Just assume it's implied in the eye contact made as he does.]
[Oh. She bites her lower lip on one side to fight against the lazy smile that pulls at her. She really would feel out the whole inside of his mouth, if he'd sit for it, and she's scootching in closer to him with a rapt expression on her face.]
[Who knows what he'd sit for, or lay for, as he is now, leaning back half way against the headboard - but there's something obscene about that absurdly pretty mouth, the press of his tongue against the pads of her fingertips as his lips slide to the next joint.]
[She shares his oral fixation, although in the grand scheme of things... with her it's just one of many appreciations. It had been fluids more than mouths when it had been Barbet, but Carla sees no reason to make that delineation like he did. She just twists her hand to pet the roof of Chase's mouth, the backs of his teeth. She's the one who makes a noise about it, a giddy little exhale of enjoyment followed by a squirm.]
[Roof of the mouth contact is less comfortable, closer to triggering a gag reflex as the attempts to swallow around her fingers makes clear. He doesn't pull back from it, though opening his mouth wider is an attempt to be more accommodating, eyes fluttering half lidded but still focused on hers. His hands, needing occupation, trace across her ribcage, nails edged against her skin.]
[She really wouldn't mind choking him, this isn't all that different from keeping his jaw prised open. She can't help it, even before her self-esteem was tattered and she started hunting for power in all the wrong places, she liked to be invasive, that just-a-little-bit too close to cause a squirm. There's something interesting to having it willingly though, something she had sort of forgotten about in the past half-decade. Her fingers curl against flesh, sliding from back to front, stopping with her thumb massaging outer gums.
Her hand trails away slowly across his chin, leaning in to lick the curve of his upper lip.]
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(No, she doesn't say 'thank you.')]
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[Yes, he's too busy focusing on the hooks to notice anything else, although a natural aptitude toward delicacy of touch mean that the hooks dislodge from their respective eyes in a neat procession, black fabric tugging apart to reveal more of the tattooed tracework beneath. Then it's impossible to overlook, although it's initially confusing. This wasn't here before? He rests his fingertips against the red, heated skin, then draws over the top of the linework.]
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[Her answer is flat, asking his help wasn't a ploy to get his attention, or to get him to stay, she doesn't think that way. She's told him much more bluntly and directly in the past what she wants, and she doesn't really like playing the coquette, not with people who truly interest her. She didn't care for that particular brand of insincerity. This wasn't to show him the marks down her spine either, although she's not protesting, she'd have wanted him to see it eventually.
She turns her head, eyes still closed, temple resting against the cool surface. Her back flexes under his touch anyway, it's pleasant whether he stays or goes and there's a reason she chose this space to mark: it's not just the back of her neck that she finds particularly sensitive, it's all the way down her spine. The needles puncturing over and over again had been interesting and enjoyable, all the hands that will do exactly what he's doing will be too.]
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He bows his head, mussed, damp blonde against her shoulder as the last few hooks come free.]
When did you get this done?
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[She holds still when she feels the fabric finally release all the way, waiting. The top had been tight enough and her bust small enough that there isn't a bra strap in the back to divide the mark down her spine.]
Eames gave me the place.
[Useful.]
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[His considered assessment. It's not for him to like it or dislike it - it's not offputting - although his personal preference would be a smaller statement. There's not much, though, that Carla seems to say quietly. He wraps his arms round her waist where he stands, curled in against her back. It's not leaving, but moving also feels like an effort when this is comfortable for now.]
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It's not really in her nature to ever truly be content, but Chase isn't leaving and she can feel him against her back through the gape in her dress. That's not nothing, and she lets herself settle there for the time being--(Listening to his breathing close to her ear, noticing the pulse in his chest.) Her head lolls to the side, shoulders and neck relaxed in a way that probably isn't normal when he's around to agitate her.
She's comfortable and willing to be still, up to a point. Barbet trained patience in to her, never liked how abrupt and pushy she could be, tried to make her appreciate their physicality, when they had it, as part of his art. She never could. Even when he'd sketch her, she'd just want him to stop, to let her touch him, to put his hands on her.
Carla's lifts up to the doctor's cheek when she turns her head. She won't be surprised at all if he balks from her kiss, it wouldn't be the first time and she'd hardly imagine it to be the last. He lives to be frustrating, she's certain of it.]
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Still, though at some point his hand has found its way through the gape of her dress to clasp against the flat of her stomach and slips steadily upwards, there's no move on his part to press forward, or break the barrier of her doorway.]
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She knows she isn't virulent, but she remembers what it was like when she was. The only way Barbet would let her mouth this close was after dousing her with chemicals first. Then he would always act like he didn't understand how he made her feel so humiliated, why she was desperate for any affection that didn't come predicated by his work.]
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They both look drunk, disheveled in a doorway with swollen mouths and pinked skin. It's a different sort of predication that she's not blind to, but she'd rather he stayed.]
You're staying?
[Her pitch has gotten throaty, breath heavier under her sternum. She'd have preferred that statement sounded like less of a question.]
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I'm tired.
[There's no tone of excusing himself from this entanglement in that. If anything his arms, heavy, languid, wrap her closer.]
Should I?
[It's do you want me to by any other name.]
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[Because her bed is significantly nearer than his is and not at all because she is enamored with him and has little inclination to be let go of. She nudges her nose against his, a lazy incitement not to get distracted and wander off from her.]
There's room.
[Which translates to something she might regret upon reflection, but there is a very minimal amount of that in progress at the moment.]
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She hadn't been doing all that way moving forward, and shuffling backwards with the distraction of his mouth might be a disaster if she doesn't find something to sit down on in short order. Her hands catch in the loose fabric around his hips to help steer him along. The space Saya has designated to her is largely unfurnished. Carla really isn't much of an interior decorator. The apartment she'd shared with someone else had come with all of its pieces, that was why she'd chosen it. Here, though, Saya has supplied a bed and not much else has accumulated around it, not besides a strange little shadow-play of a forest that sits in a windowsill and a few things atop a dresser.
She's still reserved on committing to it, knows she doesn't want to be at the apartment, but doesn't always trust this place either. Didn't need to. Chase and Saya would let her into their beds. Karl had a place for her to sleep at Phantomhive, and Isabela made no complaints about having her on the Iris for a few nights. Bed to bed to bed, rarely to her own. The one she considers her own is where Rex sleeps, by himself, waiting. She's scattered. Her anchor is gone and she holds on to what she can, but there isn't really 'home.' Even the campsite makes a better play at the title than here.]
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His own room isn't much more furnished than this one, just an echo in another corridor. There's the same clear path to the bed, which helps him now, all but lifting her the last few backward steps but only stealing the ground under her on the last, to pull her down with him.]
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Mhn. Stay up here.
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She presses her fingertips down over his mouth, just as stained, dragging color off to the side, but she's perfectly willing to remove them and keep to the established priority. The taste of the champagne has faded, but she supposes that he's alright on his own.]
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Her hand trails away slowly across his chin, leaning in to lick the curve of his upper lip.]
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