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[Requiem] A temper tantrum
Dec. 7th, 2006 07:42 pm1815
Greece
Gwynefar had been out of sorts, a little as she and Vittorio traveled. She was 16 now, a woman grown, and yet… Not. Vittorio’s unflappable calm in the face of.. everything, his protectiveness of her, ensuring that she was… only his.
Controlled.
She remembered that night the handsome Greek man who was so taken with her, kissing her hand, being such a gentleman… She saw through it, and was not attracted, but Vittorio… he calmly removed her from the man’s company, his eyes glittering with darkness, a sense of danger to him, and took her home. After that night, he checked on her every night, and she was not allowed out alone. All because he wanted to keep her. And yet he did nothing.
Moments of intimacy came and went, of ecstatic pleasure at the touch of his lips, and yet… nothing.
One night she stayed in their rooms, brooding, unable to settle. Vittorio watched her, sensed the speed of her blood flowing under her pale skin, the restlessness in her body. She’d been willful lately, he’d tasted it, sensed it when he touched her - a passionate frustration - her scent was one of passion and fire.
“What troubles you Gwyneveirre? You cannot sit still.” She glances at him: calm, relaxed even. Her eyes glower slightly.
“Come now, what is bothering you?” She turns to him, her eyes sparkling with anger.
“Why aren’t I allowed to be close to anyone but you?”
He studies his fingers, and then her. “You need to be looked after. I prize you highly, and do not wish to see you come to harm.”
“A prize… a thing? I am not an object, a pretty painting, or a piano or a piece of furniture!”
He comes over to her, placating, conciliatory, with a very faint trace of patronization. “Of course not, ma chere….”
She brushes him away, and he suppresses a slight smile - she’s getting angrier. He continues to follow her, quite calm, all the while watching her skin flush, her hair move, and the fire of her eyes.
Beautiful. So incredibly beautiful when she was angry.
He was too calm, and it made the heat in her worse, flaring out of control.
“You cannot keep me like one of you possessions! A prize to be taken out and admired but only for you! Its… selfish! Manipulative!”
“Well then, I am.”
“You… People are not some possession to be kept in seclusion for a person’s amusement. I am a person god damnit, and you… you treat me like I am one of your paintings, or a rose in your garden, or that damn piano!”
She waves angrily at the offending instrument.
“What about what I want? The independent person who is not in charge of her life? And don’t tell me that women are not, because that is the society we live in…. that’s rubbish too. Its only like that because of the selfishness of human nature…. And you… you are a law unto yourself, aren’t you, do things your way and remove any obstacle to your progress. God, Angel, Demon, over everyone around you, no matter what they might want….”
She trails off, facing the window, her body tight with tension, but no words left to express the passion and frustration humming through her.
Silently he comes up behind her, putting his arms around her and whispers into her ear, ‘You are so beautiful when you are angry’, his voice full of love.
She turns sharply, her lips parting with anger and she goes to push him away. He grabs her arms, not hard, looking at the defiance in her eyes. She struggles slightly and he pulls her against him, holding her as tightly as the passion of her rage boils over. Before she can speak, he lowers his mouth to hers, brushing his lips across it, and her jaw, her throat till he reaches her shoulder. Her anger becomes filtered with passion, as he parts her skin with his fangs, tasting her, the rage, the fire, the life, the passion.
She moans collapsing into his arms as the passion overflows.
Greece
Gwynefar had been out of sorts, a little as she and Vittorio traveled. She was 16 now, a woman grown, and yet… Not. Vittorio’s unflappable calm in the face of.. everything, his protectiveness of her, ensuring that she was… only his.
Controlled.
She remembered that night the handsome Greek man who was so taken with her, kissing her hand, being such a gentleman… She saw through it, and was not attracted, but Vittorio… he calmly removed her from the man’s company, his eyes glittering with darkness, a sense of danger to him, and took her home. After that night, he checked on her every night, and she was not allowed out alone. All because he wanted to keep her. And yet he did nothing.
Moments of intimacy came and went, of ecstatic pleasure at the touch of his lips, and yet… nothing.
One night she stayed in their rooms, brooding, unable to settle. Vittorio watched her, sensed the speed of her blood flowing under her pale skin, the restlessness in her body. She’d been willful lately, he’d tasted it, sensed it when he touched her - a passionate frustration - her scent was one of passion and fire.
“What troubles you Gwyneveirre? You cannot sit still.” She glances at him: calm, relaxed even. Her eyes glower slightly.
“Come now, what is bothering you?” She turns to him, her eyes sparkling with anger.
“Why aren’t I allowed to be close to anyone but you?”
He studies his fingers, and then her. “You need to be looked after. I prize you highly, and do not wish to see you come to harm.”
“A prize… a thing? I am not an object, a pretty painting, or a piano or a piece of furniture!”
He comes over to her, placating, conciliatory, with a very faint trace of patronization. “Of course not, ma chere….”
She brushes him away, and he suppresses a slight smile - she’s getting angrier. He continues to follow her, quite calm, all the while watching her skin flush, her hair move, and the fire of her eyes.
Beautiful. So incredibly beautiful when she was angry.
He was too calm, and it made the heat in her worse, flaring out of control.
“You cannot keep me like one of you possessions! A prize to be taken out and admired but only for you! Its… selfish! Manipulative!”
“Well then, I am.”
“You… People are not some possession to be kept in seclusion for a person’s amusement. I am a person god damnit, and you… you treat me like I am one of your paintings, or a rose in your garden, or that damn piano!”
She waves angrily at the offending instrument.
“What about what I want? The independent person who is not in charge of her life? And don’t tell me that women are not, because that is the society we live in…. that’s rubbish too. Its only like that because of the selfishness of human nature…. And you… you are a law unto yourself, aren’t you, do things your way and remove any obstacle to your progress. God, Angel, Demon, over everyone around you, no matter what they might want….”
She trails off, facing the window, her body tight with tension, but no words left to express the passion and frustration humming through her.
Silently he comes up behind her, putting his arms around her and whispers into her ear, ‘You are so beautiful when you are angry’, his voice full of love.
She turns sharply, her lips parting with anger and she goes to push him away. He grabs her arms, not hard, looking at the defiance in her eyes. She struggles slightly and he pulls her against him, holding her as tightly as the passion of her rage boils over. Before she can speak, he lowers his mouth to hers, brushing his lips across it, and her jaw, her throat till he reaches her shoulder. Her anger becomes filtered with passion, as he parts her skin with his fangs, tasting her, the rage, the fire, the life, the passion.
She moans collapsing into his arms as the passion overflows.
