02-04-2014, 04:00 PM
Streams of morning light gilded everything in soft gold halos, but her world was dark. The pitch of Jaxen’s gaze centred the fury in her chest, blurring the volatility of lust and violence seamlessly. She’d intended provocation, and his viciousness keened her sense of war. To win this battle with her, to win any battle with her, he would have to try far harder than the futility of imposing submission. Force won nothing from Ori, nothing she was not prepared to give; it only fortified the blunt edge of her offense, urged her to shove back until something snapped. The casualty would be him.
Her fingers dug in like the marble might yield under her grip, and the muscles strained tight up her arm. She didn’t crave intimacy, nor the spark of a connection, and though the line of her gaze remained unbroken there was a disconnect. A masochistic smirk tugged her lips, when her expression did not ripple between the duality of pleasure and pain. She made no efforts to be quiet, apparently genuine in her ardour, though he must have realised by now her predisposition to put on a good show. Whether a voyeuristic view into something he was no more part of than physicality demanded or a fabrication to spite his brutality, she withheld the only thing he wanted.
His question prompted no swift answer, though it did usher darkness into her expression. She didn’t consider it her responsibility to educate him; she’d only wanted to ascertain if she needed to be guarded once she’d left his apartment - and she had suspected yes, his ignorance now confirmed. A sensible person would be cautious anyway, but she’d seen the cracks constant fear left in the strongest of veneers. She would not fear. Jaxen would learn or he wouldn’t. Someone had obviously cared enough to teach him not to kill himself, but had neglected to warn him against the snakes that hunted their kind. They had been one of the first things Cara had imparted.
“Because.”
The words were breathy, laboured, and she was in no rush to string together a sentence. She might have said nothing, and she’d have had a legitimate excuse, but intent armed her tongue. A devilish spark. He was savage, self-centred, vicious; the perfect vessel to arm with something to hate. “You’re afraid.”
A smile, cut by a bite to the lip. He revelled in his distraction. Punished her for his own obliviousness. And she was teasing his ignorance in turn, no doubt about it, but she also couldn’t have spoken cleanly even if she’d wanted to. “You’re afraid of the wrong snakes.”
Spoken frustratingly obliquely, and with a malicious smile. She wondered how long it’d take him to make sense of it – to realise their kind had predators. Ask nicely and she’d offer answers, such as she had, but she doubted he’d make it so easy on himself. When he was done, she drew back a leg and pressed a foot to the flat of his stomach to push him off. Not that she expected him to fold into her, but sometimes men did that like weakness robbed strength from their legs. “My cab should be here by now.”
Her fingers dug in like the marble might yield under her grip, and the muscles strained tight up her arm. She didn’t crave intimacy, nor the spark of a connection, and though the line of her gaze remained unbroken there was a disconnect. A masochistic smirk tugged her lips, when her expression did not ripple between the duality of pleasure and pain. She made no efforts to be quiet, apparently genuine in her ardour, though he must have realised by now her predisposition to put on a good show. Whether a voyeuristic view into something he was no more part of than physicality demanded or a fabrication to spite his brutality, she withheld the only thing he wanted.
His question prompted no swift answer, though it did usher darkness into her expression. She didn’t consider it her responsibility to educate him; she’d only wanted to ascertain if she needed to be guarded once she’d left his apartment - and she had suspected yes, his ignorance now confirmed. A sensible person would be cautious anyway, but she’d seen the cracks constant fear left in the strongest of veneers. She would not fear. Jaxen would learn or he wouldn’t. Someone had obviously cared enough to teach him not to kill himself, but had neglected to warn him against the snakes that hunted their kind. They had been one of the first things Cara had imparted.
“Because.”
The words were breathy, laboured, and she was in no rush to string together a sentence. She might have said nothing, and she’d have had a legitimate excuse, but intent armed her tongue. A devilish spark. He was savage, self-centred, vicious; the perfect vessel to arm with something to hate. “You’re afraid.”
A smile, cut by a bite to the lip. He revelled in his distraction. Punished her for his own obliviousness. And she was teasing his ignorance in turn, no doubt about it, but she also couldn’t have spoken cleanly even if she’d wanted to. “You’re afraid of the wrong snakes.”
Spoken frustratingly obliquely, and with a malicious smile. She wondered how long it’d take him to make sense of it – to realise their kind had predators. Ask nicely and she’d offer answers, such as she had, but she doubted he’d make it so easy on himself. When he was done, she drew back a leg and pressed a foot to the flat of his stomach to push him off. Not that she expected him to fold into her, but sometimes men did that like weakness robbed strength from their legs. “My cab should be here by now.”
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