impertinences: (my loyalties turned)
you're too young & eager to love ([personal profile] impertinences) wrote on January 3rd, 2015 at 01:23 pm
I don't feel like cutting this, even though it's technically a rape scene. Although perhaps not from Roman's perspective, which is all types of distressing.

I have a picture of Roman in his suit that I wanted to upload, but I can't seem to get it to work. Poo.


Roman likes to watch. His kind has always been voyeuristic – it’s in his nature, to lurk, to stalk. He has been so accustomed to his role on the sidelines that he had not thought himself such an esteemed player; Harrow’s gift, then, resonates as a point of pride. Here at least, he thinks, when Harrow claps him on the shoulder and offers him his treasured swan over a tumbler of whiskey. As though they were exchanging cigars.

It’s a three-minute conversation. 180 seconds and Ita is his.

He sits so perfectly still, a tall, imposing figure wrapped in a white suit, perched on the edge of a white bed, caught in a white room. Ita thinks he may have chosen the color intentionally, as though he might be less intimidating in a shade that connotes innocence. His undershirt is checkered and silk; the watch on his left wrist is knotted silver, a present from Harrow’s father. He smells a little of bitter oranges and black pepper but there is a curious absence about him – an emptiness. The type of bleached bone smell found in desert carcasses and skeletal husks. The absence of scent.

Ita smells like disinfectant and another man. Another shifter, to be precise. Roman breathes deep. Even after returning to the compound, she still smells like her mate. Wild dog and spotted fur. Shifting sands. The rot of heartbreak. It’s buried in her skin, in her hair, under her nails. He’s sure her blood would be sour with it. There are other, fresher smells layered above. Blood and sweat and the virile scent of fear.

She is not naked. Her dress is thin, the translucent thread of a spider’s web; he can see her ribcage through the fabric, the pink of her nipples, the soft shadow of hair between her thighs. She has been washed and made new once more – virginal, ethereal, with her blonde hair free about her shoulders and down her back, her eyes wide, too full of emotion, and framed in golden lashes. Her eyebrows are very pale, he notices, and her face is devoid of laugh lines. Not surprising, considering her history. Harrow, he knows, is a barbarian posing as a gentleman at best.

He supposes he could say the same about himself. He knows some already do, though never to his face.

“Have a seat, Ita. I won’t bite.” His voice sounds too big for the room, and it fills every inch, pressing in on her. He hasn’t moved, but he extends his hand in a gesture.

When she settles on her knees on the cold floor, Roman thinks this is a small way of defying him. She could have chosen the bed. He arches an eyebrow, grins in a way that is unkind, and scratches his jaw. He can feel the winged thing inside of her flutter and her eyes shift, uncertain. Her pulse quickens, and he wonders if she feels more caged now, here, with him than before. If it has something to do with his reputation or more to do with what she must sense about him – that scentless quality, that cold emptiness.

“Do you remember me?” This is a silly question, he thinks, considering that he had only just returned with her two weeks ago, but he’s always wondered how bright the girl is.

“… I know who you are.” She speaks so softly, her mouth barely moving to shape the words.

Unlike Harrow, Roman has never been fond of meek women, of passivity, but this world, their world, offers fewer and fewer of the fairer sex that possess legitimate backbones. He thinks of Lene, suddenly, and her round face, the flippant way she speaks, the butter shade of her hair, her iron left hook. Lene would not kneel on the floor, her knees naked and cold. Lene would not hide her eyes from him.

He’s hungry, thinking about her, and he rubs the back of his hand across his mouth.

Abruptly, for emphasis, he claps his hands together once, the first quick movement he’s made and Ita startles. “Ah, good! So reminders are not needed then. Do you know why you are here?”

She shakes her head slowly and, for the first time, she seems to account for the bed and its pristine, snow colored sheets. There’s the flutter of her pulse again, and Roman feels that familiar ache deep in his groin, an insatiable thirst, a gnawing pain.

“Hm. Well, it appears, due to your recent behavior, that Harrow is, as I am sure you are aware, displeased with you. Nonetheless, one person’s loss is, as they say, another’s gain. While you, my dear, may have lowered yourself in his eyes, I have, on account of my resourcefulness and success in retrieving you, raised myself. Which is quite a deed, I may add, seeing as how I am already so well received, being Albtraum’s second, however unofficially.” He speaks like an orator, like a diplomat, gesturing with his hands and keeping his eyes calmly on her. He likes how her mouth twitches in the smallest of ways, how she tries to shield the flush of color rising to her skin, as though she might will it away by sheer desire.

“What I am trying to say, Ita, is that you have been gifted to me. Temporarily. … For the evening, as it seems.”

She blinks her bright eyes at him, poised but uncertain.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she says, but Roman knows it’s only because she has been trained to answer all direct questions.

“Come here, mein vogel. Meine perle.”

Roman has undone his jacket, draped it over the corner of the bed, and he works the buttons of his shirt slowly, precisely.

Ita’s hands shake, but she rises and moves with practiced elegance. He can smell the despair in her stomach, and her breathing is stifled, pained, soft little gasps of air. When her knees brush his, her hem playing over the fabric of his pants, he reaches up to unclasp the hook of her dress from behind her neck. She has a beautiful throat, long and white, and he spreads his fingers up her collar, over the curve of her cheek, to brush his thumb under her eye where tears have sprung, like violent traitors, and clung to her eyelashes.

“Chin up, girl.” He tells her, the smooth rumble of his voice neither kind nor cruel. “None of that now. You can pretend I’m him, hmm? That dog of yours.”

He takes her from behind, like a beast, a hand caught in her hair, the other splayed across her hip, because he thinks this is how she must prefer it. He stretches his weight across her back, his mouth on her neck, the top of her spine, between her shoulder blades. He takes and he takes and she suffers the impossible burden of him, his heaviness and his hunger.

Roman is not quick. He bides his time, grounding himself in the moment, in the pleasure of the experience, in the feel of her. Her bones are brittle, and he bruises her when he forgets himself, clutching her pale skin and seeming all the more like a predator.

Once it’s over, once it’s done, he collects himself with languid ease. He fastens his pants and buttons his shirt, runs his finger back through his disheveled hair, collecting it at the nape of his neck. He leaves Ita wrapped in the sheets as he does this, her pretty, delicate fingers shifting the cotton soundlessly so as to cover her body. When he presses a kiss to her forehead, chaste and like a stranger, she flinches against him, the heat and flush of her body a poor indicator of her true feelings.

Lene is already waiting for him in his quarters. He is wearing his jacket again, but it’s unbuttoned, and the sleeves are rolled up so that she can see his forearms. He sits in a threadbare upholstered chair, elbows on his knees, fingers laced under his chin. She stands, her jeans dirty and ripped; there’s mud on her sneakers, and the shirt she is wearing is so thin that he can see the outlines of her breast. When she lifts her arms, the bottom of her stomach shows, glimpses of soft, vulnerable flesh. He’d like to put his mouth there, below her navel, and then lower still.

“You smell like her.” Lene tosses her words into the air, quick and dry, but they sound flavorless.

“I imagine she smells like me as well.”

“Like a corpse?”

Roman barks a laugh, and his grin is wolfish, charming. “I have yet to hear you complain. What is this, Lene? Jealousy? From a girl of mine?” He tsks, low and chiding.

Lene grinds her teeth so hard that it’s audible. Her face has the crumpled look of disgust and anger. There are no tears in her eyes, which he is grateful for. She shrugs uncomfortably in her own skin, tugs at her shirt, pushes away her hair. Her gestures are jerky, as though she’s restraining herself, but not sure why.

“You could have said no. You could have never returned with her.”

Roman laughs again, the same biting sound. “I could have?”

“Did you enjoy it? Did you think of me to make it more bearable? Did you do that thing I like?”

“Which thing?”

It’s Lene’s turn to laugh, the sound like a trumpet, and she fights the urge to put her hands on her hips, to stand like a petulant child. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, and Roman wants to sooth her. To take her face in his hands. But that type of comfort is beyond them now, caught in an ivory bird’s feathers.

When the silence settles, he stands, shrugging. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you … to enjoy it less.”

He sighs, fixated on her, on the anger that is radiating from her. For a moment, he thinks of letting her hit him. Of taking her fists until the bones in his cheeks and jaw shatter, till the blood breaks from his mouth, before his body heals itself and then maybe they could be connected by the pain of it.

“Want less then,” He chides, meaning to smirk, but his mouth can’t quite manage the lift.
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