It's a Graves thing (soundofwings) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-06-10 18:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | death |
Who: Iris
What: Settling in (Narrative)
Where: Ian's home
When: Concurrently and slightly after this
Warnings/Rating: Iris' thought processes - includes some thinking about sex.
Iris’ room in Ian’s home was technically a guest room, but it was larger than she was used to having, and richly furnished. It was the same room she’d awoken in and then rushed out of after that first night spent in the house, but it had changed slightly upon her moving in, acquiring things to make it less a guest room and more her own homey bedroom. Her new bed was just as big as the one in her apartment, piled high with the sorts of soft bedding that she loved to burrow under. There was a writing desk, a comfortable chair, and a thick rug on the floor. One wall held windows, another held doors - one to the en suite bathroom (large and luxurious in it own right, with a tub just right for soaking in) and one to the walk-in closet.
A closet that had held a small selection of clothes when she moved in and that quickly filled over the days she spent there, things appearing on the rare and brief occasions she stepped out of her room. Each item of clothing was divided by type and then by color, though none of the colors were much more saturated than a few light pinks and some darker greys. The center of the room held an island of drawers, full of lace and satin and softer cotton, underthings that were sized to fit her exactly. More drawers held socks and stockings, from wisps of silk to the heavy knitted over-the-knee things that she’d favored recently to keep her feet warm and hide the still-fading bruises on her legs. The shoes at the back of the shelves were flat, nothing more than an inch of heel. It was as if someone had taken her old wardrobe, tweaked it just slightly, and transported it to this new place. The tweaks were substantial though, in the way that the things were much nicer than she felt her own clothing was. So she picked out only a few things, the things that seemed less likely to cost a great deal, and wore those during the day. At night, she returned to the over-large mess of shirt and capri pants that she had been wearing when Ian had brought her from her apartment.
It had been several days since she was relocated from her home to his, and they’d been quiet days, nothing demanded of her as she stayed in her new rooms. The nights had been even quieter, and though she slept better knowing that she was under his roof, she still found that falling asleep was difficult, staying asleep just as much. She was getting more rest than she had, but still found herself studying the dark circles under her eyes in the mirror come morning. And while she saw Ian, often-times around meals, when he would manage to draw her out of her room and sit her down in front of plate of deliciously prepared food, he’d asked nothing more of her than that. There was no pressure, no stress... no touches, at least nothing more than kisses to her hair, her forehead, a solid but brief embrace at times. He asked nothing of her, so she made herself as invisible as possible, hiding herself away because something in her equated not being pursued with not being wanted. And it confused her, twisted her up until she wasn’t quite certain which way was up. He’d wanted her once, she was certain, could remember the way his desire had felt - how he’d been able to take in a way that made her want to give.
But all that had been missing. And she couldn’t place why. If it was him or if (more likely) it was something about her. Something that had changed. Something that made her less desirable. And that could have been any number of things, especially if he knew the sorts of things she’d done and been through while they were apart. It made her sad, torn and damaged in a place that she’d hoped to heal, but she did her best to ignore that part while going through her days, convinced that she could somehow manage. That being close to him, in his - their, he would say - house was enough. But it wasn’t.
And so she tucked herself away, made herself small, brought tea and a few small things to her room for when she grew too hungry, and did her best to not make an impact on his home. His reassurances only went so far to bolster her conviction, and there were times that she wondered about no longer imposing on his kindness, about returning to her own home so that he wouldn’t have to put in the time, effort, or money to create a place for her when she already had one. His message about Ella was another push toward her relocating where she wouldn’t be in anyone’s way again, but then Ian was telling her to impose. A suggestion that was somehow also an order, and though it felt rude still - she was raised to be as unobtrusive as she could, to not burden others if she could help it - the need to follow that direction settled heavy in her chest.
And then the invitation.
She had stared at it, had spilled her tea because it sent her breathless and shaky. Her mind quickly flipped through thoughts that made more sense than him inviting her to his bed: he didn’t mean it that way; he meant it, but not for that night; he was teasing because he thought it was a silly idea at this point in time. She stayed with “teasing” for a period of time as it made some of the most sense to her, but then she began to worry again. About disappointing him, making him mad - but she couldn’t decide if he would be mad about her presence or her absence. After a few minutes, she had talked her own brain around in such circles that she was back to keeping herself hidden away in her own room, but then she saw the messages on the journal from "Drake W", and she nearly cried out loud.
She remembered. Remembered the names of the brothers that had killed Ian (or so she’d thought), had carried their names and voices with her for the past years, and seeing the name resurface, with an anger that was obvious even on the page, made her shake and worry. She couldn’t lose Ian again. She couldn’t. Even if he didn’t want her any more in the way she desired, she was still his. She didn’t know how not to be. And suddenly, painfully, she needed the reassurance that he was safe and would be there to keep her.
Her feet had nearly carried her out the bedroom door before she stopped, frozen at the realization of how she looked - so similar to the way she had the day he’d taken her from her apartment. And while all she was looking for in that moment was some sort of reassurance that they were both safe, she felt too undone to approach him. And that closet - the one full of things he had purchased for her, called. Because he wouldn’t have put anything in the closet that he didn’t want to see her in, would he?
The slip was under her hands before she could think too much about it, a light fall of fabric that could barely be held in her hands without spilling through her fingers. It hung on the hanger like yet another invitation, and she shook when she exchanged her loose cotton for clinging silk and a bit of lace from the nearby drawers. She felt indecent with it on, like she wasn’t wearing a thing at all, and let her hair down on her shoulders to give her some sort of protection. There was a thick terrycloth robe hung near the door, something she’d been living in during her hidden evenings, but it wasn’t the sort of thing to layer over a bias-cut column of silk. And though her skin raised in a landscape of goosebumps and puckered, shivery skin, the house was warm enough that she didn’t need another layer to ward off chill. And she felt flushed and too-warm as it was.
Her room was only steps from the master bedroom, and she closed her own door softly behind herself before hurrying to his. Her hands were shaking, her entire body was shaking, and she stood for a moment, exposed to anyone else that might be in the house, before uncertainly knocking on his door. Soft enough to be ignored without needing to make an excuse.
But the door opened. And she was ushered inside.