[ He'd be an incredible tormented fashion designer in another life. His eye looks askance at the notebook being held up against him for comparison, then back to her. ]
If it helps, they were practically like waiting dogs around mine and Karlach's coffins when we woke up. Practically ready to pounce on the two of us.
[ Seeing Karlach show up was a shock to Daan since she died after him, but that's a different story. ]
Not the kind of event I would have thrown in a time like this, but everyone finds their personal comforts somewhere.
[Upset and appalled this is not the timeline we have. She puts the notebook away for now. When she's in a mood to read she'll give it a look.]
That's rather sweet, though. Maybe unnerving, but at least they were happy to see you.
[Imagine the opposite. Devastating.]
Me either. But people need to blow off steam somehow. The higher the stakes, the harder they go. [More power to them. In the meantime?] So? Cool if I come over?
Or you could come to mine.
[So tempting, this scantly furnished vacant suite.]
[ Thinks about Izutsumi and Karma threatening his life on entry. Yeah.
He's taking a moment to think. His own suite is something -- lavish, just like the rooms of the von Dutch estate. High class, yet quaint. Nostalgia, familiarity. And yet, there's something else there, the outline of a moon in the black far wall, a torn caution tape in the corner, blood under the furniture. He closes his eye briefly. Maybe let's not invite Camille into that. ]
[Well Izutsumi had a reason. Karma never needs one.
Her mood lifts a touch. Her smile is still subdued, the hour and the day still weighs heavy. But he accepts.]
Well come on in.
[She widens the door and slips inside, looking for a spot to drop both keys and notebook.
It's very much a blank canvas. Motel-like. Standardized furniture, rote decor, little in the way of theme. Dim, even with the lights on. There's bed in the room beyond. Some glassware in the cupboard. Nothing much in the fridge. She fetches them both some water in lieu of anything better, passing it off to him as she takes a seat.
An ash tray has sprouted on the coffee table. She doesn't think it was there before.]
Don't know how much time I'll have to make a real nest of it, but I've never been one for decorating anyway.
[ He stands here, a clear stranger in another person's room. Not overly awkward, but just enough of that politeness when in another person's place, whether it be a personal space or just their motel number.
It's quaint here, small. Practical. He accepts the water with a nod. ]
Doubt most have. It's just a place to sleep, mostly, and rest. At least you won't actually have to do much in terms of furnishing.
Creepy. But that's not much different than usual, at least for me. I've been living in my editor's basement for the last year. It's comfy. All I can ask for.
[ He exhales out slowly and already finds himself itching for a smoke. His awful little go-to, the safer vice he has to quell the ever-present scratch in his head, crawl over his skin. ]
Imagine you'd pick a different room if you didn't.
[ Even if she hadn't realised they'd end up being neighbours, still. She could just get out and grab another room on another floor at the far end of the hall if she wanted to rather than invite him in.
There's a dull pulse of an ugly cocktail of things. A slight irritation of being treated like what some might perceive, like a delicate and wilting flower. A deep-seated frustration, physical, one that leaves him restless and aching. The ebb of guilt as he tries to figure out the exact boundary he's walking around here, not toeing it until he understands it a bit better. ]
As I told you before, I can't offer you a traditional relationship.
[ Want him to be happy. He's aware-enough that that's going to be difficult, especially if Camille wants to be the one responsible for it. Best to just clarify that early just in case that's what she meant. ]
[For her own part there's an inward folding. A streak of humiliation, self-loathing. Hurt. If she'd offered sex to begin with she wouldn't have been so shy. Instead she asked for things she's never dared to. Isn't worthy of, frankly. She's a bad bet in even the best of circumstances, just a long string of rough fucks and depressive delirium. Company for the night, and no more.]
Maybe not. [She concedes. Setting the glass down.] I don't know how I'd do in the first place, either.
[Camille rises. Gently tosses her hair back again as she moves ahead. Closing the gap between them. Left hand, formerly missing, now sliding up his shoulder.]
[ For what it's worth, there's a part of him that seems genuinely sorry, a building guilt to reduce this to a bodily thing. Half of him is against it with what he knows of her, and the other half acknowledges they're similar enough in this that at least it's even ground. He wants better for Camille, for her to be able to really love and be loved in turn.
In a certain sense, Daan does. He loves easy, it gets him burnt often. Here though, it's just too distant, a willing wall placed between them out of the fear that he'll hurt her eventually. Thank god she's got her eye back, because it'd be a horrible reminder of that right around now.
Maybe half a week left at best. Moonrise, para bellum. They were discussing methods of fixing time, connecting worlds -- he wonders if that'll be it then. That's fair, he thinks, brushing away the hollowness that surfaces at the thought. His lashes lower, watching her. ]
[What a pair they make. All prickles and apologies, rubbing old wounds together and infecting each other with guilt.
It might be the most feeling she's ever come to a man with. All the more potent for the impossibility. Maybe there could have been a life for them. Some point approached earlier, were she less a coward. If neither fell prey to possession. If they met somewhere different.
She does love him. Uncertain as she's been for weeks, it comes clear to her through the smothering fog that shrouds them both. Warm, smooth, and terribly sad. Unspoken. She doesn't think she'll say it now. It would muddy the careful lines they're drawing, or dash them to nothing.]
Then that's that.
[She meets his gaze, head tilted up. Then she turns. Kisses at his jaw, another hand at his chest.]
You can take what you want. [Another kiss, higher, at the corner of his mouth.] When you want.
[That hand snakes up, around. Brushing the hair at the back of his neck as she comes to his lips, kissing with open intention.]
[ He can take, she says. That's part of the problem, something he's not used to. It's always the other way around, people take from him. Childhood, autonomy, sanity, happiness, choices. He doesn't know what to do with that kind of offer.
He stands still and quiet, letting Camille test the waters, coming closer. He's a little tense, but accepts it all -- until she runs fingers through the short hairs at the back of his neck and kisses him openly. Then it's like a snap of the string, his hands coming to her shoulders, her waist, a step forward as he reciprocates with a bit of a tremour, the shakiness of someone trying not to overwhelm.
All the compounded effects means she'll feel the wave of it like a broken dam, not overpowering but something to wade through. There's a sense of still being held back some, but that's just for the depths of it. It's probably enough to dissuade any idea that he might not be into it. ]
[It comes to her like gust of wind. The slurry of feeling, half hers and somehow three quarters his. It makes her gasp, tight and girlish in the midst of the kiss.]
It's okay. [Breathless, in the spare sliver between bids for his mouth.] It's okay...
[It doesn't sweep her away, this rush of need, this brittle hesitation. She holds steady, drinks it down like the last drop of blue label whisky. Gracious, greedy. She scrapes her nails sweetly through his hair, hungry over his back. Presses her hips to him, chest to chest. She's not a buxom woman but she's heard no complaints.
It's been so long. Too long, since she's allowed anyone this much. He really could do as he pleases. There's so little that hasn't been done to her — a wretched mirror of his own experiences, sacrificed time and again at the altar of other's whims. She is taken, and she gives, and she lets herself be lifted and stripped and eaten to the bone. Whatever makes the night pass easier.
Camille nips at his lip. Shifts hand to his front to pry at the buttons of his shirt, tugging them open with an urgent and practised ease.]
[ He really has on qualms about body shape. Men, women, outside or in-between. A consequence of his upbringing and the places he's lived, maybe. The cities of his era aren't always so accepting and it stings sometimes like when that journalist from the train called him queer to his face. Perhaps she only meant it in the sense that he's a tad strange, which he understands, but he's always been rather self-conscious and a bit paranoid about being perceived, like it means they can see the rest of him too.
Restraint. Covering up. Pretending. He's always been fairly good at those things, but rip off the plaster and he'll bleed, because he doesn't think this will ever really go away. He's never had a problem with intimacy itself, but he likes feeling reliant on it far less. It's been... a long while since he last permitted it, between the war, Prehevil, this place. Said restraint is still present, but his grasp on it is a little bit tremorous as he kisses back with hunger, a soft groan at the verbal permission, more so at the teeth catching his own lip.
But his touch is gentle despite it. His hand rests soft on the curve of her hip, almost helping to hold her up while she picks away at his buttons, guiding them both backwards steadily to keep from tangling arms or legs towards the bed in her room. Not even a damn moment to sleep on it normally for herself. Oh well.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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If it helps, they were practically like waiting dogs around mine and Karlach's coffins when we woke up. Practically ready to pounce on the two of us.
[ Seeing Karlach show up was a shock to Daan since she died after him, but that's a different story. ]
Not the kind of event I would have thrown in a time like this, but everyone finds their personal comforts somewhere.
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That's rather sweet, though. Maybe unnerving, but at least they were happy to see you.
[Imagine the opposite. Devastating.]
Me either. But people need to blow off steam somehow. The higher the stakes, the harder they go. [More power to them. In the meantime?] So? Cool if I come over?
Or you could come to mine.
[So tempting, this scantly furnished vacant suite.]
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He's taking a moment to think. His own suite is something -- lavish, just like the rooms of the von Dutch estate. High class, yet quaint. Nostalgia, familiarity. And yet, there's something else there, the outline of a moon in the black far wall, a torn caution tape in the corner, blood under the furniture. He closes his eye briefly. Maybe let's not invite Camille into that. ]
Yours.
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Her mood lifts a touch. Her smile is still subdued, the hour and the day still weighs heavy. But he accepts.]
Well come on in.
[She widens the door and slips inside, looking for a spot to drop both keys and notebook.
It's very much a blank canvas. Motel-like. Standardized furniture, rote decor, little in the way of theme. Dim, even with the lights on. There's bed in the room beyond. Some glassware in the cupboard. Nothing much in the fridge. She fetches them both some water in lieu of anything better, passing it off to him as she takes a seat.
An ash tray has sprouted on the coffee table. She doesn't think it was there before.]
Don't know how much time I'll have to make a real nest of it, but I've never been one for decorating anyway.
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It's quaint here, small. Practical. He accepts the water with a nod. ]
Doubt most have. It's just a place to sleep, mostly, and rest. At least you won't actually have to do much in terms of furnishing.
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[She leans back, crossing one leg over another.]
Daan. You have permission to sit, you know.
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[ He looks... around... looks at a chair, but also looks back at her. ]
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Maybe I like your company.
[Which is true. But not the only thread to this conversation. Camille sighs, rubbing a thumb over the condensation of her glass.]
I said I wouldn't push you, Daan. And I meant it.
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Imagine you'd pick a different room if you didn't.
[ Even if she hadn't realised they'd end up being neighbours, still. She could just get out and grab another room on another floor at the far end of the hall if she wanted to rather than invite him in.
There's a dull pulse of an ugly cocktail of things. A slight irritation of being treated like what some might perceive, like a delicate and wilting flower. A deep-seated frustration, physical, one that leaves him restless and aching. The ebb of guilt as he tries to figure out the exact boundary he's walking around here, not toeing it until he understands it a bit better. ]
As I told you before, I can't offer you a traditional relationship.
[ Want him to be happy. He's aware-enough that that's going to be difficult, especially if Camille wants to be the one responsible for it. Best to just clarify that early just in case that's what she meant. ]
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Maybe not. [She concedes. Setting the glass down.] I don't know how I'd do in the first place, either.
[Camille rises. Gently tosses her hair back again as she moves ahead. Closing the gap between them. Left hand, formerly missing, now sliding up his shoulder.]
And we don't have time to try much anyway, do we?
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In a certain sense, Daan does. He loves easy, it gets him burnt often. Here though, it's just too distant, a willing wall placed between them out of the fear that he'll hurt her eventually. Thank god she's got her eye back, because it'd be a horrible reminder of that right around now.
Maybe half a week left at best. Moonrise, para bellum. They were discussing methods of fixing time, connecting worlds -- he wonders if that'll be it then. That's fair, he thinks, brushing away the hollowness that surfaces at the thought. His lashes lower, watching her. ]
...Maybe, maybe not.
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It might be the most feeling she's ever come to a man with. All the more potent for the impossibility. Maybe there could have been a life for them. Some point approached earlier, were she less a coward. If neither fell prey to possession. If they met somewhere different.
She does love him. Uncertain as she's been for weeks, it comes clear to her through the smothering fog that shrouds them both. Warm, smooth, and terribly sad. Unspoken. She doesn't think she'll say it now. It would muddy the careful lines they're drawing, or dash them to nothing.]
Then that's that.
[She meets his gaze, head tilted up. Then she turns. Kisses at his jaw, another hand at his chest.]
You can take what you want. [Another kiss, higher, at the corner of his mouth.] When you want.
[That hand snakes up, around. Brushing the hair at the back of his neck as she comes to his lips, kissing with open intention.]
I'll be right here.
no subject
He stands still and quiet, letting Camille test the waters, coming closer. He's a little tense, but accepts it all -- until she runs fingers through the short hairs at the back of his neck and kisses him openly. Then it's like a snap of the string, his hands coming to her shoulders, her waist, a step forward as he reciprocates with a bit of a tremour, the shakiness of someone trying not to overwhelm.
All the compounded effects means she'll feel the wave of it like a broken dam, not overpowering but something to wade through. There's a sense of still being held back some, but that's just for the depths of it. It's probably enough to dissuade any idea that he might not be into it. ]
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It's okay. [Breathless, in the spare sliver between bids for his mouth.] It's okay...
[It doesn't sweep her away, this rush of need, this brittle hesitation. She holds steady, drinks it down like the last drop of blue label whisky. Gracious, greedy. She scrapes her nails sweetly through his hair, hungry over his back. Presses her hips to him, chest to chest. She's not a buxom woman but she's heard no complaints.
It's been so long. Too long, since she's allowed anyone this much. He really could do as he pleases. There's so little that hasn't been done to her — a wretched mirror of his own experiences, sacrificed time and again at the altar of other's whims. She is taken, and she gives, and she lets herself be lifted and stripped and eaten to the bone. Whatever makes the night pass easier.
Camille nips at his lip. Shifts hand to his front to pry at the buttons of his shirt, tugging them open with an urgent and practised ease.]
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Restraint. Covering up. Pretending. He's always been fairly good at those things, but rip off the plaster and he'll bleed, because he doesn't think this will ever really go away. He's never had a problem with intimacy itself, but he likes feeling reliant on it far less. It's been... a long while since he last permitted it, between the war, Prehevil, this place. Said restraint is still present, but his grasp on it is a little bit tremorous as he kisses back with hunger, a soft groan at the verbal permission, more so at the teeth catching his own lip.
But his touch is gentle despite it. His hand rests soft on the curve of her hip, almost helping to hold her up while she picks away at his buttons, guiding them both backwards steadily to keep from tangling arms or legs towards the bed in her room. Not even a damn moment to sleep on it normally for herself. Oh well.
OooOOoOOOOooo milked ominously (ftb) ]