Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
They’re building something else on the banks of all these other thresholds; she didn’t have a name for it presently, probably wouldn’t for days on end. Instead, there were bouts of absolute indulgence she could recognize, fires lit and kindled, incensed, threatening to unravel at the seams again, shared portions she never would have dared think possible or probable. Not with her layers of impudence and wonder, sedition and ruin; gods Iskra must’ve had the patience of a saint –
The thought was cut off with another incursion of desire rippling and shuddering through her, some established rhythm between their bodies. Moans swept out of her mouth and into his skin or across his lips, at one point her teeth went to seek something to barb and clench upon, probably his ear, heels digging into his lower back as if propelling and ushering him onward, locked in place, waiting for the next sinuous elation. "Yes?" she inquired with a slight smirk, but had nothing else to add - not when her own head was roused with nothing more than racing down the plains of their pleasure. Her back arched into his motions, following instead of leading, then entertained the thought of adjusting her maneuvers, one hand sliding to his chest, feeling a heart pounding beneath her fingertips; the roar of her name in his voice, a cacophony to remember, settle somewhere as a memory.
She blinked once or twice, watching him from beneath her hooded gaze, then gave into the feeling once more, panting, mewling; before some sudden machination, a challenge, came unbidden from her form, and she attempted to press him down, intending to switch the roles and positions, to fumble him into the wooden floor instead.
The thought was cut off with another incursion of desire rippling and shuddering through her, some established rhythm between their bodies. Moans swept out of her mouth and into his skin or across his lips, at one point her teeth went to seek something to barb and clench upon, probably his ear, heels digging into his lower back as if propelling and ushering him onward, locked in place, waiting for the next sinuous elation. "Yes?" she inquired with a slight smirk, but had nothing else to add - not when her own head was roused with nothing more than racing down the plains of their pleasure. Her back arched into his motions, following instead of leading, then entertained the thought of adjusting her maneuvers, one hand sliding to his chest, feeling a heart pounding beneath her fingertips; the roar of her name in his voice, a cacophony to remember, settle somewhere as a memory.
She blinked once or twice, watching him from beneath her hooded gaze, then gave into the feeling once more, panting, mewling; before some sudden machination, a challenge, came unbidden from her form, and she attempted to press him down, intending to switch the roles and positions, to fumble him into the wooden floor instead.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
