Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
All at once, the built crescendo bounds and leaps; shudders through her with such forged pleasure that she couldn’t quite help the moans escaping her throat, unbidden in their unraveling. “Gods,” she murmured, whispered, mind not functioning past the barest glimmer of seeking out those primordial aspects, thighs still trembling as they wound their way around his hips. She would’ve sought to give him some of his own relief, but when his responses were just of her, she didn’t quite know what to do with that – selfless aspects and individuals hadn’t been a regular part of her life – half-tempted to slide right back to the floor and bask in the bliss for a second –
Not that it seemed to matter much thereafter; Iskra was chasing his down and she’d be fine with conforming, contorting, coiling another press of desires and indulgences. Another rash, harsh intake of breath rasped and gasped past her lungs as she was hauled against him, lifted, settled, eyes hooded, then shut, as she felt him joining her; sliding, crossing thresholds where his fingers had left. “Wait,” she panted, adjusting, widening her stance so there was room to acclimate and adjust, mind in a haze and a daze and racing down those banks of heat and satisfaction once more – something to grasp, something to unfurl.
Her mouth sought his as she maneuvered; body pursuing a rhythm, seeking the undulation of hips and the ripple of movement, of motion, fingers flexing, grasping at the play of muscles along his arms, his shoulders.
Not that it seemed to matter much thereafter; Iskra was chasing his down and she’d be fine with conforming, contorting, coiling another press of desires and indulgences. Another rash, harsh intake of breath rasped and gasped past her lungs as she was hauled against him, lifted, settled, eyes hooded, then shut, as she felt him joining her; sliding, crossing thresholds where his fingers had left. “Wait,” she panted, adjusting, widening her stance so there was room to acclimate and adjust, mind in a haze and a daze and racing down those banks of heat and satisfaction once more – something to grasp, something to unfurl.
Her mouth sought his as she maneuvered; body pursuing a rhythm, seeking the undulation of hips and the ripple of movement, of motion, fingers flexing, grasping at the play of muscles along his arms, his shoulders.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
