Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Melita wasn’t one to wait – the impatience always buzzed under the surface of her skin, preparing for flight, for movement, for vehemence and violence, so to settle there, mind contorting into molten ends, took a perilous strength lodged in her bones. She couldn’t even be certain how long it took for him to unfurl the next set of words, watching closely as his own cheeks turned red, as truth spilled out grain by grain, and she realized just how dim and daft she’d been – hoping, in some way, that things she left unsaid were simply going to materialize into the ether. Be understood. Take nothing but fumbling steps and drunken thoughts. Expect that was enough.
She hadn’t been fair to him either, so her nose wrinkled in one of those rare bouts of shame or confusion. It hadn’t been his fault that she had difficulty laying down any of those infernal armors and walls – she’d put up so many it’d likely been impossible to tell from either side. Her plans were usually associated with anger, revenge, some innate boldness, ignoring the lacquer built underneath. That ire was a cover for so many toils, troubles, and feelings; the fear of loss, the compounding nature of things drawn out and away and how many times she’d survived when others hadn’t. Relationships had been built out of protection and even then it scarcely mattered because they all fucking died or left or lingered out of reach. Gods, the last time anyone had confessed anything romantic towards her, she’d pulled her knife on them.
Her features turned red again, and she looked down at him, releasing a very, long breath, steadying whatever tightened over her fingers. “Yeah, well-,” she started, and it felt like a quarrel building behind her teeth because that was far more comfortable than giving pieces of herself over to someone. Vulnerability wasn’t her strong suit – not when she could have wrath and abhorrence and be hidden behind her daggers going for the throat – but maybe Iskra was far safer than anything or anyone she’d known. Her gaze met his, and she swallowed down the pride and defiance blistering against her spine. “They were. I meant them.”
But then they were flipping, and her fingers lost their grip on the cushion. Suddenly she was on the floor, hair flung in every direction, eyes widening in the tiniest bout of bewilderment – before they were merely drinking him in. Her chin raised in habitual defiance, but the golden stare roamed; over his features, the billowing muscles beneath his shirt, to the burning gaze settling on hers – chest tightening, forgetting about air. How the confession slid so easily from his mouth she’d never quite know or understand, not when it was so difficult to pry anything soft or loving from hers, but it prospered something like a muted gasp. “Really?” grated a stunned whisper; because not many had ever wanted her in their lives, much less like this. Before she could offer anything more though, his mouth was on hers, and she responded with equal ardor, strength, and conviction, lips pressed feverishly into his, one hand maneuvering to his shoulder, the other carding through the short lengths of his hair – thinking she could start there in expressing the sentiments.
She hadn’t been fair to him either, so her nose wrinkled in one of those rare bouts of shame or confusion. It hadn’t been his fault that she had difficulty laying down any of those infernal armors and walls – she’d put up so many it’d likely been impossible to tell from either side. Her plans were usually associated with anger, revenge, some innate boldness, ignoring the lacquer built underneath. That ire was a cover for so many toils, troubles, and feelings; the fear of loss, the compounding nature of things drawn out and away and how many times she’d survived when others hadn’t. Relationships had been built out of protection and even then it scarcely mattered because they all fucking died or left or lingered out of reach. Gods, the last time anyone had confessed anything romantic towards her, she’d pulled her knife on them.
Her features turned red again, and she looked down at him, releasing a very, long breath, steadying whatever tightened over her fingers. “Yeah, well-,” she started, and it felt like a quarrel building behind her teeth because that was far more comfortable than giving pieces of herself over to someone. Vulnerability wasn’t her strong suit – not when she could have wrath and abhorrence and be hidden behind her daggers going for the throat – but maybe Iskra was far safer than anything or anyone she’d known. Her gaze met his, and she swallowed down the pride and defiance blistering against her spine. “They were. I meant them.”
But then they were flipping, and her fingers lost their grip on the cushion. Suddenly she was on the floor, hair flung in every direction, eyes widening in the tiniest bout of bewilderment – before they were merely drinking him in. Her chin raised in habitual defiance, but the golden stare roamed; over his features, the billowing muscles beneath his shirt, to the burning gaze settling on hers – chest tightening, forgetting about air. How the confession slid so easily from his mouth she’d never quite know or understand, not when it was so difficult to pry anything soft or loving from hers, but it prospered something like a muted gasp. “Really?” grated a stunned whisper; because not many had ever wanted her in their lives, much less like this. Before she could offer anything more though, his mouth was on hers, and she responded with equal ardor, strength, and conviction, lips pressed feverishly into his, one hand maneuvering to his shoulder, the other carding through the short lengths of his hair – thinking she could start there in expressing the sentiments.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
