01-11-2025, 06:23 PM
The fucker cut her off with fire, and if he wasn’t going to wilt and she wasn’t going to get laid, then that only really left getting angry. At her most intense all Ori’s emotions burned hot, and this was no different. Aside from the faint woozy rush in her head as her pulse spiked anyway, which with a snarl she was quite prepared to ignore. A lot of blood gone this time, then. But what did it even fucking matter.
The flames only blasted for a second, but the scorch off them had a primal effect. Without the buffer of lust to make it exciting the fire flashed an unwelcome memory of her fight with Ryker; of the sticky tear of her skin as it melted against the pavement. She wasn’t afraid of the flames; just angry that they had been used against her. And she never needed much of an excuse to get riled.
The power flooded into her, the submission she teased him with only moments before, except this was the sort apt to throw consequence to the wind. The punishing rain only bit harder as her awareness grew brighter. Her bones ached with the cold already. Around them the unnatural burst of winter weather found its own rhythm, perhaps bringing the promise of a true storm. In its midst Ori was soaked and seething.
She didn’t give a fuck about Zeke or Sasha’s burgeoning awareness. She did give a fuck about his dismissal, something she handed out with impunity but never reacted well to herself. Sasha shoved the drugs against her chest. She fell back a step with the movement, surprised, but didn’t catch the bag. It hit the ground, flattened quickly under the violent downpour, forgotten.
Chest heaving, the frozen rain choking up her eyes, Ori glared after him. She didn’t ask herself why she was actually angry, or why she was prepared to take it out on him. But watching him look away, searching for someone or something that wasn’t her, lit an incandescent fury in her soul. It reminded her of Brandon walking away, leaving her shielded and screaming on the ballroom floor. Of other things too, memories roused by the ijiraq but harder to recall. Just the feelings. And she hated the fucking feelings.
You are wanting, the whispers muttered. You are weak. You were always weak.
A flick of the power sent the vodka bottle hurtling into his shoulder. It didn’t smack hard. Well not that hard. It didn’t shatter anyway. What was left of the vodka splashed into the freezing rain and dissolved away. She stalked right after it, intending to shove him in the chest. She wanted his fucking attention.
The flames only blasted for a second, but the scorch off them had a primal effect. Without the buffer of lust to make it exciting the fire flashed an unwelcome memory of her fight with Ryker; of the sticky tear of her skin as it melted against the pavement. She wasn’t afraid of the flames; just angry that they had been used against her. And she never needed much of an excuse to get riled.
The power flooded into her, the submission she teased him with only moments before, except this was the sort apt to throw consequence to the wind. The punishing rain only bit harder as her awareness grew brighter. Her bones ached with the cold already. Around them the unnatural burst of winter weather found its own rhythm, perhaps bringing the promise of a true storm. In its midst Ori was soaked and seething.
She didn’t give a fuck about Zeke or Sasha’s burgeoning awareness. She did give a fuck about his dismissal, something she handed out with impunity but never reacted well to herself. Sasha shoved the drugs against her chest. She fell back a step with the movement, surprised, but didn’t catch the bag. It hit the ground, flattened quickly under the violent downpour, forgotten.
Chest heaving, the frozen rain choking up her eyes, Ori glared after him. She didn’t ask herself why she was actually angry, or why she was prepared to take it out on him. But watching him look away, searching for someone or something that wasn’t her, lit an incandescent fury in her soul. It reminded her of Brandon walking away, leaving her shielded and screaming on the ballroom floor. Of other things too, memories roused by the ijiraq but harder to recall. Just the feelings. And she hated the fucking feelings.
You are wanting, the whispers muttered. You are weak. You were always weak.
A flick of the power sent the vodka bottle hurtling into his shoulder. It didn’t smack hard. Well not that hard. It didn’t shatter anyway. What was left of the vodka splashed into the freezing rain and dissolved away. She stalked right after it, intending to shove him in the chest. She wanted his fucking attention.
![[Image: orianderis.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/orianderis.jpg)