[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.
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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.]
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) ]