DeShaun (ex_hammerdow169) wrote in thefield, @ 2009-05-02 20:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | angelica, clay, group, payne, quinn, rook, sophie, z - 1st tribe - day 18 |
Who: Open to any and all in camp.
Where: Not smack in the middle of camp, but close enough to be noticeable.
When: Mid-afternoon.
What: Tempers flare. Yeah, we know the meteors were yesterday, but Payne and Clay fight every day.
Rating: TBD (It's already R because, um. Payne and Clay.)
Warnings: Language, violence, domestic abuse, tattooing.
Payne had been busy that morning. Well, she'd tried to. She'd risen early, early enough to catch a few warm, sunny minutes with Clay, the sleepy tangle of hands and mouths and limbs leaving a smile on her lips when he finally got up to go and do whatever it was he wandered off to do in the mornings, usually leaving her asleep. This morning she watched him walk out into the forest, and turned to the tasks at hand. She took her boot knife, sharpening it with a stone she'd found out by the river. Then the same with the pocketknife, and finally she took out a needle she'd made out of an eleboar quill, using threads from the sheet to sew up a small rip in her tank top. Sure, it wasn't much now, but it wasn't like she could just hit up a laundrette for new clothes, now was it? She did all this in silence, only occasionally calling out the odd greeting to those in other hammocks. Then hunting, coming back with one of those tiny, fluffy creatures to toss down by the fire. She met Clay, then, and soon the talk turned toward the dark juice she'd managed to make, and the rusty-brown patterned inked into the top of her left foot. One thing led to another...
"You write anything on me..." Clay threatend. For the third time, but who was counting? Payne was crouched behind him with her ink and her needle, jabbing away. He couldn't see what she'd decided to decorate the unmarked canvas of his shoulders with, which was starting to be worrisome. Not that he didn't trust Payne! By this point he was pretty sure he'd trust her with his life. It was just...
"I don't want anything retarted. Nothing girly, neither." Christ, what if she decided he needed a rose? Or a skull? He'd given in, figuring she was just going to do some lines, like on her foot. That wouldn't be too bad. The makeshift needle jabbed again and again, not painful, precisely, but annoying. Real fucking annoying, if Clay was honest.
"Goddammit!" He couldn't help but twitch. She'd hit a nerve, or maybe just poked a little deeper.
Payne grinned, giving a flash of teeth at the back of Clay's head. He was being a bit of a girl about it, but that was allright. At least he'd let her stick her needle into his pure unmarked flesh. Payne loved being first. She'd never wondered why, but there was something about being connected to anyone's first...first hit, first ink, first fuck, first piercing, first theft...anything like that, it gave her a high that lasted for days. And Clay, well he'd given her just enough resistance to make her triumph something heady and grand. She held the needle with careful precision, proud at how uniform the design looked. She leaned in to give his shoulder a teasing lick, raising her hand to lick it and wipe the blood away.
"You're gettin' a butterfly, Clay." she mocked. "No! A heart! A heart wi' little angel wings....an' it says 'I love Ma'."
"And you're getting your ass kicked," Clay retorted, without heat. She knew better. He didn't suspect Payne of designing a tat that would be deliberately horrible. He just wasn't one hundred percent sure if her idea of a classic, tasteful design would match up to his.
"No words," he added unnecessarily, but unable to stop himself from giving just one more warning. If the situation wasn't bad enough, a new thought occurred to him. "Aw, hell, Payne. Tell me you ain't chewed on no beetles today." That was the last thing he needed, her marking him up with some weird tripped-out shit. Clay turned his head as far as he could without shifting his shoulders, trying to get look at Payne.
She laughed now, settling in and letting her legs sprawl out on either side of Clay's hips. He was thinner; she couldn't help but notice that, and a pang went through her. Her fault. If she'd been better, if she'd been the hunter she should, they'd all be fat and happy. She'd have to work harder, travel farther. She pushed that thought away and continued jabbing him with the sharp quill, the ink in a deep groove she'd cut into the side.
"No beetles." she confirmed, taking mercy on him. She'd gotten her first ink at fourteen, and still remembered the strange paranoia, the fear that somehow she'd end up with something ridiculous. "An' next I'm gonna do barbed wire around your fuckin' arm. An...an' some fuckin' Chinese shit."
"Yeah, you can write 'Fuck you' on my ass," Clay agreed, relaxing enough to play along a little. He was aware that he was being a pussy about this, and was making a conscious effort to be more casual. He didn't need Payne teasing him about being a baby. "One of them Chinese symbols on each cheek," he added, lifting up on his hands for a second to wiggle his butt. A grunt as she gave a particularly vicious jab with the needle.
"Hey! What'd I do to deserve that?" The question came out less teasing and a more petulant than he intended.
Payne hadn't exactly meant to jab so deep, it was just that his wiggling had set her off her rhythm and she'd overcompensated for the pause. She bit her lip, smoothing her hand out over his shoulder again and leaning in to press a warm kiss to the nape of his neck where the blonde hair curled. Her hand reached down to give his ass a good squeeze, her lips curling at the certain reaction. "Shouldn't your ass say 'fuck me'?" she teased. "Never figured you for a bitch, Clay, ya learn somethin' new every day!"
It was sweet relief when Payne got distracted and paused in her relentless inking. Clay took advantage to drop his weight off his hands and back down onto the ground, conveniently grinding her wandering hand into the dirt with another more forceful butt-wiggle.
"Fuck you," he retorted amiably, and then, as inspiration struck, "you wish." He wasn't entirely sure what that even meant, in the context of him being someone's bitch, but Payne would draw her own damn conclusions he was sure. Anything to keep her distracted a little longer--because he could use just a bit of a break from all the stabbing, but like hell would he ask her for one!
Payne did stop as her hand was ground into the dirt, her fingers twisting painfully. She yanked it back with a pained hiss, shaking her fingers out and giving her knuckles a good crack. And then Clay's words dropped into her ears, and her face went completely blank. That fuck, that fuck, rubbing it in, rubbing her face in it! As if she was some tagalong, as if she was pathetic, needy, desperate! Without thinking or waiting Payne's hand whipped forward and gave Clay a good hard smack on the ear. She was up on her knees and furious in seconds. "That how it is, huh? You really wanna go there, limp-dick?"
"Hey!" What the hell was this? It didn't occur to Clay that maybe his words had been taken the wrong way, or that he could explain that he had only meant to joke with Payne the way they always did, not piss her off. He'd already gone from zero to sixty at her next words. He turned, not bothering to rise to his knees, just throwing himself onto her, toppling them both to the ground, hands gripping her shoulders.
Payne was spitting and scratching right off, not waiting to recover from her shoulders being thudded painfully to the dirt. She bucked her hips, teeth bared, her hands coming up to grasp two handfuls of Clay's hair and yank - hard. "I wish? That what you think? Think I'm fuckin' hard up? I ain't hard up, ha, not like you'll ever be...."
He'd meant that she wished he was somebody's bitch, not that she wished he'd fuck her, but the injustice of Payne's misinterpretation was lost on Clay. As usual when things got physical, his brain had stopped processing words. Her tone was getting through, vicious and mean, stoking Clay's own anger. He got a hand into her hair and pushed her face toward the dirt, his left hand dropping to deliver a smack to her flank. And not a playful smack by any means.
"Shut up," he snarled. So he wasn't listening to Payne. He still wanted her to stop talking.
The thud of Clay's hand against her flesh sent ripples through Payne, and the little shock of pleasure at the pain wasn't entirely lost on her. She was torn between talking him down so that she could finish, and provoking him to further violence. In the end her own rage and his yanks on her hair made any sort of thought on the matter rather redundant. She spat dirt out of her mouth and bit at his wrists, one of her hands smacking hard across his cheek. "Yeah? You gonna make me?"
Clay yanked his arm away from Payne's teeth, letting out a hiss of anger and pain. "Shut up. Cunt." He shifted his weight onto his knees, accompanying his words with a staccato of quick punches to Payne's midsection.