[ 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}
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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) ]