12-29-2025, 06:11 PM
Sasha stayed where he was, water barely trickling over him as he watched the way it traced her skin. The look he gave her wasn’t shy. It wasn’t deferential. It was lust – raw, shameless, unfiltered – and she liked the quiet intensity of his attention. But when he spoke, his voice rough and unguarded, the words hit her like a flick of cold steel. Ori’s expression hardened, amusement and heat snapping under a sharper edge. He was trying to be generous. Thoughtful. Attentive. Trying to be useful even now, when he was spent. And that was exactly what grated against her.
What made him think he knew what she wanted? He’d called her complicated, confusing, and the presumption of her needs now made her bristle, teeth itching to bite. If she’d wanted release, she would have taken it – used him for it cleanly, the way she had before. She didn’t need him to lay it on a tray first. The offer skirted too close to obligation, too close to a submission she hadn’t asked for. She didn’t want a servant. She didn’t want an offering laid at her fucking feet.
Her jaw tightened. Her eyes darkened.
And yet –
He’d stepped closer already, into the stream with her, water lancing over the marks she’d left. Red crescents bloomed across his shoulders and chest, proof of her hands, her teeth, her will. Sasha wasn’t retreating. Nor had he stepped back just because his body had finished demanding. He wasn’t lingering out of duty; he wanted her. Even now. Especially now. And that realisation sparked something treacherous in her chest, something that felt uncomfortably like being chosen without being chased.
His hands on her didn’t demand, but they were honest, present, close enough that she felt the pulse in his arms, the tension in his shoulders, the barely controlled weight of his body. The restraint was infuriating. Her own body betrayed her instantly – hips pressing, breath hitching, heat coiling low and sharp, skin alive wherever his gaze or the spray of water touched. Her fingers flexed, still deciding whether to shove him back or trail over his wet skin. Offering himself like that, exhausted and earnest, threatened to tilt the moment somewhere she didn’t want it to go: away from raw friction, toward something quieter, messier. Conflict knotted deep, sharp, intoxicating.
Lips wet with water, eyes gleaming, Ori leaned closer, breath hot and angry. “Don’t tell me what I want.” The words cut low, edged like a blade. For a heartbeat she wasn’t sure if they were for him or for herself. Her breathing gave her away: aroused and furious, both sparks burning in her chest, and neither willing to die first. But on the angry hiss of her words she was already kissing him again, letting him feel the heat of her, the anger humming beneath her skin. She was furious at being placated – and just as furious that her body answered him anyway. But she didn’t stop.
It took a slower turn now, a deliberate lull in the storm. She was hungry and unrushed in the heat and steam; a promise of more until he couldn’t keep up. Until the fire burned through them both. She let him trace her curves, glide over her slick skin, feel the pulse of heat beneath his fingers, while she pressed herself deliberately against him, hips shifting, hands tangling in his hair, teasing, guiding, teaching him the rhythm she wanted without ever speaking it aloud. Every brush of his hands, every press or pinch of his fingertips drew a sharp inhale from her, a flare of heat that made her pulse spike. She let him read her body, respond to it, and recover himself.
The time stretched, filled with whispered breaths, the hiss of water, and the press of slick flesh. And when she felt the first sharp flare of his urgency returned, she gave him no quarter.
Afterwards, steam clung thick to the air, blurring the hard lines of tile and metal until the shower felt sealed off from the rest of the world. The water still ran hot, steady now, a constant hush filling the space between them. Ori stood under it, skin flushed, pulse still loud in her ears. Her body was still warm, still responsive, the echo of want not yet burned out but tamed into satisfaction.
Sasha moved with an unthinking ease beside her, the urgency gone, hands gentler without trying to be. At first she stiffened when he moved to rinse soap from her shoulders, from the line of her spine, careful in a way that didn’t ask permission and didn’t seek reward. There was no hesitation in it, no calculation. Just the quiet assumption that this was allowed. He wasn’t watching her for reaction, wasn’t waiting for permission or bracing for retaliation. He was just… helping. Like he’d forgotten she could bite.
Ori’s jaw tightened. Her instinct told her to shake him off, to reassert the distance she preferred after something like this. Her body did the opposite. Muscles eased despite her irritation, breath slowing as warmth and water soaked deeper.
She didn’t stop him. Didn’t acknowledge it either.
He moved on without comment, fingers briefly lifting wet hair from the back of her neck so the water could reach the places it clung. The touch immediately reminded her of colder hands pressed there, working knots without reverence. It was almost absent-minded. Almost thoughtless. And that lack of self-awareness slid under her armour in a way lust never quite managed.
When they were done she didn’t fully dress, just top, panties, and boots half laced. Not a chance she was negotiating leather on damp skin. She didn’t speak either, not until she was pulling the tank down her stomach. “You know, that was a dangerous promise, Sasha.” Her tone was teasing, her smile the kind that caused wreckage. She fully expected him to follow.
It wasn’t technically breaking and entering since she knew the doorcode, but they weren’t supposed to be in here. Helena Asquith made no secret of her dislike of Oriena, but no one ever actually went to great lengths to reign her in so long as she maintained a certain amount of decorum. Like not destroying the place again.
This was one of several small bars which served the various subterranean levels of Almaz. The bar itself was industrial, welded into the cave wall. Metal chairs and tables dotted the space up to a reinforced glass wall which looked out onto one of the caged arenas. The view beyond was pitched dark currently, just the ghostly outline of their own silhouettes blurred back at them when Ori flipped the lights. It wasn’t bright. This deep underground it was like sunlight didn’t exist.
Ori pointed out a barstool with a smirk, but didn’t watch to see whether he listened. She turned her back to go behind the bar, eyeing up the offerings.
“You still in pain?” she asked.
What made him think he knew what she wanted? He’d called her complicated, confusing, and the presumption of her needs now made her bristle, teeth itching to bite. If she’d wanted release, she would have taken it – used him for it cleanly, the way she had before. She didn’t need him to lay it on a tray first. The offer skirted too close to obligation, too close to a submission she hadn’t asked for. She didn’t want a servant. She didn’t want an offering laid at her fucking feet.
Her jaw tightened. Her eyes darkened.
And yet –
He’d stepped closer already, into the stream with her, water lancing over the marks she’d left. Red crescents bloomed across his shoulders and chest, proof of her hands, her teeth, her will. Sasha wasn’t retreating. Nor had he stepped back just because his body had finished demanding. He wasn’t lingering out of duty; he wanted her. Even now. Especially now. And that realisation sparked something treacherous in her chest, something that felt uncomfortably like being chosen without being chased.
His hands on her didn’t demand, but they were honest, present, close enough that she felt the pulse in his arms, the tension in his shoulders, the barely controlled weight of his body. The restraint was infuriating. Her own body betrayed her instantly – hips pressing, breath hitching, heat coiling low and sharp, skin alive wherever his gaze or the spray of water touched. Her fingers flexed, still deciding whether to shove him back or trail over his wet skin. Offering himself like that, exhausted and earnest, threatened to tilt the moment somewhere she didn’t want it to go: away from raw friction, toward something quieter, messier. Conflict knotted deep, sharp, intoxicating.
Lips wet with water, eyes gleaming, Ori leaned closer, breath hot and angry. “Don’t tell me what I want.” The words cut low, edged like a blade. For a heartbeat she wasn’t sure if they were for him or for herself. Her breathing gave her away: aroused and furious, both sparks burning in her chest, and neither willing to die first. But on the angry hiss of her words she was already kissing him again, letting him feel the heat of her, the anger humming beneath her skin. She was furious at being placated – and just as furious that her body answered him anyway. But she didn’t stop.
It took a slower turn now, a deliberate lull in the storm. She was hungry and unrushed in the heat and steam; a promise of more until he couldn’t keep up. Until the fire burned through them both. She let him trace her curves, glide over her slick skin, feel the pulse of heat beneath his fingers, while she pressed herself deliberately against him, hips shifting, hands tangling in his hair, teasing, guiding, teaching him the rhythm she wanted without ever speaking it aloud. Every brush of his hands, every press or pinch of his fingertips drew a sharp inhale from her, a flare of heat that made her pulse spike. She let him read her body, respond to it, and recover himself.
The time stretched, filled with whispered breaths, the hiss of water, and the press of slick flesh. And when she felt the first sharp flare of his urgency returned, she gave him no quarter.
Afterwards, steam clung thick to the air, blurring the hard lines of tile and metal until the shower felt sealed off from the rest of the world. The water still ran hot, steady now, a constant hush filling the space between them. Ori stood under it, skin flushed, pulse still loud in her ears. Her body was still warm, still responsive, the echo of want not yet burned out but tamed into satisfaction.
Sasha moved with an unthinking ease beside her, the urgency gone, hands gentler without trying to be. At first she stiffened when he moved to rinse soap from her shoulders, from the line of her spine, careful in a way that didn’t ask permission and didn’t seek reward. There was no hesitation in it, no calculation. Just the quiet assumption that this was allowed. He wasn’t watching her for reaction, wasn’t waiting for permission or bracing for retaliation. He was just… helping. Like he’d forgotten she could bite.
Ori’s jaw tightened. Her instinct told her to shake him off, to reassert the distance she preferred after something like this. Her body did the opposite. Muscles eased despite her irritation, breath slowing as warmth and water soaked deeper.
She didn’t stop him. Didn’t acknowledge it either.
He moved on without comment, fingers briefly lifting wet hair from the back of her neck so the water could reach the places it clung. The touch immediately reminded her of colder hands pressed there, working knots without reverence. It was almost absent-minded. Almost thoughtless. And that lack of self-awareness slid under her armour in a way lust never quite managed.
When they were done she didn’t fully dress, just top, panties, and boots half laced. Not a chance she was negotiating leather on damp skin. She didn’t speak either, not until she was pulling the tank down her stomach. “You know, that was a dangerous promise, Sasha.” Her tone was teasing, her smile the kind that caused wreckage. She fully expected him to follow.
It wasn’t technically breaking and entering since she knew the doorcode, but they weren’t supposed to be in here. Helena Asquith made no secret of her dislike of Oriena, but no one ever actually went to great lengths to reign her in so long as she maintained a certain amount of decorum. Like not destroying the place again.
This was one of several small bars which served the various subterranean levels of Almaz. The bar itself was industrial, welded into the cave wall. Metal chairs and tables dotted the space up to a reinforced glass wall which looked out onto one of the caged arenas. The view beyond was pitched dark currently, just the ghostly outline of their own silhouettes blurred back at them when Ori flipped the lights. It wasn’t bright. This deep underground it was like sunlight didn’t exist.
Ori pointed out a barstool with a smirk, but didn’t watch to see whether he listened. She turned her back to go behind the bar, eyeing up the offerings.
“You still in pain?” she asked.
![[Image: orianderis.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/orianderis.jpg)