Deals and Drinks and Slightly Depraved Desires (Closed RP for Richard and Camilla)

[chameleonfaust.livejournal.com]

((Backdated to 7/17ish.))



Demon deals were, in the crudest of terms, a shit idea. Literature was strewn with examples; the mortal very rarely got the good end of the stick. And yet...

When the jovial guy with yellow eyes had offered Richard anything, he hadn't hesitated. One word, spoken with a fevered reverence, as if he was summoning some ancient goddess to rise from the incense and dust of her alter and walk among them. One word and it was done. The price was some favor to be done later, but Richard barely heard the terms. He walked out of the Great Hall - he had simply come down for a cup of coffee and maybe some breakfast, never knowing that he'd chosen a seat next to destiny in the form of a very average man - with a spring in his step and a sense of very clear purpose. This was his right. He would have what he wanted. Finally.

The day was spent in a walk around the grounds. Richard saw the world in a new light. He would have her. Finally, she would be his. Not Henry's. Not Charles'. He deserved this every bit as much as anyone else. After everything, she would see. She would realize.

Camilla would come to him. The demon had promised her to him. The terms were not important, the wording was a detail he didn't need to bother with. He'd said 'Camilla' and the demon had smiled - something cold and chilling that made him think of worms on a corpse or the winter's breeze across dead grass - and nodded and that was enough.

Finally making his way back to his room, Richard sat in the chair by the fire with a glass of scotch and a cigarette. Waiting.

Comments

[chameleonfaust.livejournal.com]

God, yes. As she responded - as he knew she would, as she must - Richard slid one hand around her slim waist. The cotton shirt clung to her skin like a veil, protecting her modesty, heightening the anticipation. When she broke away he simply grinned at her. This, after all, was what women did. Demurred and protested, all the while wanting the man to demand. To be strong.

<"Yes,"> he murmured in flawless Greek. <"We should.">

His thumb brushed across those full, perfect lips and then moved around to bury itself in her hair. Strong, slim fingers tangled themselves with golden curls and pulled Camilla back to him. His mouth descended onto hers, claiming it for his own. She tasted sweet and tangy, like summer and alcohol and marmalade. Wanting nothing more than to make her fully his, Richard leaned into the kiss, trailing his fingers up and down the small of her back.

[c-macaulay.livejournal.com]

She did not try to resist. She might have forgotten how. She had never known Richard's notions of what she, Camilla, might want or need; she did not suspect what lesson he might have taken when she'd shown him what Charles had done to her, so many years ago. She only knew that he persisted now, and that she did not object, though part of her mind insisted she should. When he spoke, the words were the right words; when he kissed her, the kiss too felt right.

The right words in the right language. He said they should, and why shouldn't they? He was her friend. She loved him, as she loved all her friends. Had he been at the bacchanal with them, she would have welcomed him then, whether she had the presence of mind to know it or not. This was no different. They had been drinking just now, which was in itself sacred in a way. Her reeling mind cast up a flurry of reasons why she could do what she wanted to do, and what she wanted was this, for no reason she could discern.

She tried to articulate this, brokenly, pulling away for air. She only got as far as "<Love>" -- and every language failed her. Uncertain, she clung to him, and let his touch burn away her doubts.

[chameleonfaust.livejournal.com]

That one word, spoken in her perfect voice, erased any thoughts Richard might have carried that did not center around Camilla. Around the two of them. <"Love,"> he agreed with a wondering sigh, and slowly eased her down onto the bed. His lips found hers again, soft and sweet now that the truth had been revealed. Now that she had accepted him.

His fingers fumbled on her buttons as he tried to divest Camilla of her clothing. The buttons became, in his mind, not just bits of plastic holding together her shirt, but representations of every thing that had ever come between them. They were Charles and his sick, incestuous obsession. His bruising desire that crushed the delicate flower of Camilla's very soul. They were Henry. Perfect Henry. Who had left her; not just this time, but before, in a blaze of gunfire and a sudden blast of noise. Henry who never really understood the treasure he had in Camilla. The buttons were Bunny, and his insidious poison, and Francis, always standing back and watching. They were Julian. They were Hampden, and the money he lacked, and the years that had been ripped from them.

With every second that passed, Richard loathed the buttons more. What they represented infuriated him. Ignited some deeply buried anger. His kisses were harder, now, against her lips, and he shifted to hover over her prone body. He wanted to take her - to take her and posses her and drive out thoughts of all others beside himself. She was his, now. She had been given to him. She was his and he deserved her.

Expelling a sharp growl, Richard ripped the front of Camilla's shirt open. The buttons popped and flew into the dark corners of the room; and, just like that, they were alone. No ghosts haunting them, no twin standing over them. His mouth moved hungrily to taste the skin of her neck even as his hands traced a heated path down her exposed skin. <"You are a goddess, divine. Let me worship you.">