Eponine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
daughterofawolf) wrote2018-08-27 08:56 pm
daughterofawolf) wrote2018-08-27 08:56 pm
one-off
[backdated to Thursday night, August 16
TRIGGER WARNING: Rape, dissociation, mentions of underage sex, homelessness, starvation and child prostitution]
Eponine knows how to go away, for times like this. Perhaps it’d be better to say that her body knows how to do it -- feel everything less and just watch, bored, from somewhere in the back of her mind -- for if she tried not to do it she’s not sure she could. But it serves her well, whether it’s a freezing winter underneath the bridges of Paris that she’s gone away from, or a hungry belly, or a man like this one, intent on having his way and easier to humor for 5 minutes than to fight.
Sometimes she can even imagine a nice place, instead of watching. Somewhere warm and safe and in the arms of someone she loves. Sometimes it happens all on its own, and in those times the world changes and becomes a twisted, frightening thing that she can't affect, full of strangers and fears, but those aren't times like these.
She'd thought, a long time ago, that Darrow might be that nice place for her, might be completely different than Paris, but she hasn't thought that in a long time, since before the demon and the blood, maybe since Marius vanished. All places have boring, insistent men and cold truths, and monsters of one kind or another. Darrow is no different.
It’s one thing, though, when she’s getting paid, and she knows there’s a chance of some persuasion being needed. It’s not so bad, that way, almost like pulling one over on them. Doesn’t cost her anything but time. Or when it's Montparnasse, and maybe she doesn't feel like it really, but his good will gets her information and he at least likes her as much as he likes anybody. But this is worse, somehow, because there's nothing she's gained.
But this one. For one thing, he won’t stop talking. She tunes it out, blended into a cacophony of other male voices sure that she wants this, likes it, that the give of her body means anything at all about them. That there's anything at all about this that's about them.
She should feel violated, she knows. She should feel ruined. But she's past that, she's been damned and forsaken for years enough to build her walls back up around those foundations. If anything at all, she just feels tired and sort of disappointed.
Then he says, "You little girls," and that's what gets her listening. "You all make such cute noises." She's vaguely aware she's whimpered, somewhere outside herself, only slightly aware of the pain that caused it, but he's already pulling back from her.
That, that's different, and she blinks, trying to resurface. "All?" is what she manages to say and he laughs.
"What, you think you're the only one? The first one? Every club is full of a million of you high school girls, all thinking they're supposed to put up a little fight. But that's sweet." He pats her cheek pedantically and Eponine shoves him, hard. It's like a breaker's been thrown, like she's been far away and now she's too close, too sharp. She wants to get her hands around his throat. She wants his blood under her nails.
"Whoa," he says, and puts up his hands, stepping back. "Fuck. Is this like, news to you? Jesus. And here I thought you weren't as good of a show as I'm used to."
She could claw his eyes out, she can feel it, burning under her skin. But below that, something tells her to wait. To not become memorable. She ruffles her hair and moves past him, fixing her skirt. "Get the hell away from me," she mumbles in a petulant tone, and he just laughs and doesn't follow her.
TRIGGER WARNING: Rape, dissociation, mentions of underage sex, homelessness, starvation and child prostitution]
Eponine knows how to go away, for times like this. Perhaps it’d be better to say that her body knows how to do it -- feel everything less and just watch, bored, from somewhere in the back of her mind -- for if she tried not to do it she’s not sure she could. But it serves her well, whether it’s a freezing winter underneath the bridges of Paris that she’s gone away from, or a hungry belly, or a man like this one, intent on having his way and easier to humor for 5 minutes than to fight.
Sometimes she can even imagine a nice place, instead of watching. Somewhere warm and safe and in the arms of someone she loves. Sometimes it happens all on its own, and in those times the world changes and becomes a twisted, frightening thing that she can't affect, full of strangers and fears, but those aren't times like these.
She'd thought, a long time ago, that Darrow might be that nice place for her, might be completely different than Paris, but she hasn't thought that in a long time, since before the demon and the blood, maybe since Marius vanished. All places have boring, insistent men and cold truths, and monsters of one kind or another. Darrow is no different.
It’s one thing, though, when she’s getting paid, and she knows there’s a chance of some persuasion being needed. It’s not so bad, that way, almost like pulling one over on them. Doesn’t cost her anything but time. Or when it's Montparnasse, and maybe she doesn't feel like it really, but his good will gets her information and he at least likes her as much as he likes anybody. But this is worse, somehow, because there's nothing she's gained.
But this one. For one thing, he won’t stop talking. She tunes it out, blended into a cacophony of other male voices sure that she wants this, likes it, that the give of her body means anything at all about them. That there's anything at all about this that's about them.
She should feel violated, she knows. She should feel ruined. But she's past that, she's been damned and forsaken for years enough to build her walls back up around those foundations. If anything at all, she just feels tired and sort of disappointed.
Then he says, "You little girls," and that's what gets her listening. "You all make such cute noises." She's vaguely aware she's whimpered, somewhere outside herself, only slightly aware of the pain that caused it, but he's already pulling back from her.
That, that's different, and she blinks, trying to resurface. "All?" is what she manages to say and he laughs.
"What, you think you're the only one? The first one? Every club is full of a million of you high school girls, all thinking they're supposed to put up a little fight. But that's sweet." He pats her cheek pedantically and Eponine shoves him, hard. It's like a breaker's been thrown, like she's been far away and now she's too close, too sharp. She wants to get her hands around his throat. She wants his blood under her nails.
"Whoa," he says, and puts up his hands, stepping back. "Fuck. Is this like, news to you? Jesus. And here I thought you weren't as good of a show as I'm used to."
She could claw his eyes out, she can feel it, burning under her skin. But below that, something tells her to wait. To not become memorable. She ruffles her hair and moves past him, fixing her skirt. "Get the hell away from me," she mumbles in a petulant tone, and he just laughs and doesn't follow her.