Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
His gaze on her made her want to simultaneously curl inward or preen and savor; difficult assertions when lightning scars across her chest were on full display, and when she wanted to simply be admired. But then there didn’t seem to be any withdrawal, any anger on his part for the last time they’d spoken about her death and subsequent resurrection – focused more on one another and the attention, the study, the perusal. Then it was the heat of his hand pressing against her skin, making her stutter, stop, shiver, trying to remember where she’d been going on her own wayward explorations, until he acquiesced to her command, and she could have the wandering eyes.
Not that she hadn’t seen him beforehand – but it’d been very passing glances and making sure she hadn’t been caught while doing it. Now her grasp could slide over his chest and snag at the muscles there, more than ample, open admiration; had she had more opportunity she might’ve strived to trace over the ink and tattoos she’d yet to wholly decipher. Her fingers had scarcely deigned to skim and hover, touch, snag, before his were back on her, and she was gasping, back arching under the undulations. Her sweater had been tossed somewhere (she’d be stealing it again), bra gone, left behind with clasps snagged, and she raised her chin at the exposure, daring him to say anything else. And maybe a challenge; to see which would take the other first.
What he murmured hadn’t been the words expected – gaze widening as her brain short-circuited again – but she could feel her body revel at the sound of it. Confidence she shouldn’t have had bid her onwards, maneuvering underneath so he might find his mouth to roam over her nipples instead of eventually winding their way there. She couldn’t help the breathless moans, the gasps, that followed, each touch a distinction and a pathway no one else had taken. Somewhere along the course of her primordial commands and wanton guidance, her hands traced away from his chest, his back, and down the length of his spine towards his hips, snagging at pants, finding buckles, the clang of metal gone and loosening as his hips tilted towards her.
Not that she hadn’t seen him beforehand – but it’d been very passing glances and making sure she hadn’t been caught while doing it. Now her grasp could slide over his chest and snag at the muscles there, more than ample, open admiration; had she had more opportunity she might’ve strived to trace over the ink and tattoos she’d yet to wholly decipher. Her fingers had scarcely deigned to skim and hover, touch, snag, before his were back on her, and she was gasping, back arching under the undulations. Her sweater had been tossed somewhere (she’d be stealing it again), bra gone, left behind with clasps snagged, and she raised her chin at the exposure, daring him to say anything else. And maybe a challenge; to see which would take the other first.
What he murmured hadn’t been the words expected – gaze widening as her brain short-circuited again – but she could feel her body revel at the sound of it. Confidence she shouldn’t have had bid her onwards, maneuvering underneath so he might find his mouth to roam over her nipples instead of eventually winding their way there. She couldn’t help the breathless moans, the gasps, that followed, each touch a distinction and a pathway no one else had taken. Somewhere along the course of her primordial commands and wanton guidance, her hands traced away from his chest, his back, and down the length of his spine towards his hips, snagging at pants, finding buckles, the clang of metal gone and loosening as his hips tilted towards her.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
