Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
With Goose occupied, Melita strived to roam back to the much-too-large thread points, sighing as she loosened them again and tried to mire her way back through the process with tighter lines and edges. Her mother would’ve been able to do this in no time at all – swift, keen, muscle memory based – and while the Honeybee could stab anyone with little knives and needles and swords, employing it into fabric and refining the art seemed like a lost cause. She’d be better off continuing to give herself stitches and call it good.
Turning back as Iskra had somehow managed to…pin himself under cloth, she ran her eyes over the situation. “How the fuck-,” she uttered on a lower mumble, sighing, figuring maybe she’d never get her own shit done between the dog and the man, taking her scissors and running it through the enclosing, binding textiles and materials. “How were you planning doing this on your own?” The cutting instruments went through it smoothly and proficiently, but she couldn’t promise any even-keeled portions.
Turning back as Iskra had somehow managed to…pin himself under cloth, she ran her eyes over the situation. “How the fuck-,” she uttered on a lower mumble, sighing, figuring maybe she’d never get her own shit done between the dog and the man, taking her scissors and running it through the enclosing, binding textiles and materials. “How were you planning doing this on your own?” The cutting instruments went through it smoothly and proficiently, but she couldn’t promise any even-keeled portions.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
