02-03-2014, 07:20 PM
The snake thing, it was a tender wound, and once reminded of exactly how delicately he regarded the ink on his arm Ori revelled in the offense. The curl of his lips softened a smirk to her own, and sparked fire in the placidity of her gaze. The amusement at his grievance was genuine; on anyone else the expression would have been radiant, but on her it was shadowed by cruelty. She laughed at him, slid the remains of her coffee back on the counter, ready to leave.
She hadn’t been thinking about his fears when she’d spoken, or his reasons for the tattoo. She wasn’t predisposed to pay much heed to such a detail of a person’s psyche until the moment its memory benefited her – because it did file away somewhere, waiting until the knowledge twisted victims through her fingers, eking out retribution like girls played with ribbons. The darkening of his mood was just an incidental byproduct of the answers she’d been digging for, but one that was strangely pleasing. They’d been playing a silly game in a corner of her club, numbed by vodka, fired by lust. He thought she’d even remember how he’d bared his soul to strangers? How fucking cute.
The violent seize of his hands took her by surprise, flashing cautionary ire but little resistence. At the same time an unanticipated deluge of reactionary power flooded her system, then died, sending a shiver of tingles down to her toes and a sharp outlet of breath from her lips. She could have denied him, but that he knew it was half the fun of acquiescing to his possessive nature. Her fingers gripped the edge of the countertop, eyes half hooded but locked on his. His gaze was sharp, his grasp hard enough to bloom bruises. She'd bear the brunt of his frustrations wickedly, but she wasn't done cajoling his darker side, nor teasing out the discord until it sang a pretty tune. “That isn’t why it’s ironic.”
Edited by Oriena, Feb 3 2014, 07:21 PM.
She hadn’t been thinking about his fears when she’d spoken, or his reasons for the tattoo. She wasn’t predisposed to pay much heed to such a detail of a person’s psyche until the moment its memory benefited her – because it did file away somewhere, waiting until the knowledge twisted victims through her fingers, eking out retribution like girls played with ribbons. The darkening of his mood was just an incidental byproduct of the answers she’d been digging for, but one that was strangely pleasing. They’d been playing a silly game in a corner of her club, numbed by vodka, fired by lust. He thought she’d even remember how he’d bared his soul to strangers? How fucking cute.
The violent seize of his hands took her by surprise, flashing cautionary ire but little resistence. At the same time an unanticipated deluge of reactionary power flooded her system, then died, sending a shiver of tingles down to her toes and a sharp outlet of breath from her lips. She could have denied him, but that he knew it was half the fun of acquiescing to his possessive nature. Her fingers gripped the edge of the countertop, eyes half hooded but locked on his. His gaze was sharp, his grasp hard enough to bloom bruises. She'd bear the brunt of his frustrations wickedly, but she wasn't done cajoling his darker side, nor teasing out the discord until it sang a pretty tune. “That isn’t why it’s ironic.”
Edited by Oriena, Feb 3 2014, 07:21 PM.
![[Image: orianderis.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/orianderis.jpg)