[SE] Sew me what you know

Melita

I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles

It wasn’t that Melita was ever without words – many often came to mind, and usually formed in a cluster of seditious reverberations or stark outrage. Here, in something so unfamiliar, so new, so unknown, all she had were her movements, the sinuous unwinding of all her senses roused to a point, the shape of molten moments and fixtures. Iskra used his heart and Melita used her actions, grazing her mouth down the side of his neck, billowing breaths and another promise of teeth, as he rose to her challenge.

Not that she knew what she was doing when she was astride – but she preened, gave a wild, vicious, proud grin as she languidly pushed herself upright, hand on his chest to steady herself, knees off to the side of his hips. From this vantage point she had a whole world to see – him unraveling beneath her, hips ascending, thrusts beckoning into her core; ripple plays of muscles, and she was left feeling potent, powerful, consumed, present in their primordial glow. Even his words caused a smug display, gilded eyes growing more hooded again, body following his movements undulating into her own, then trying to alter the pace, faster, frenzied, pursuing, following, hunting, tracking those rushes into the climax. “Are you close?” she whispered, lowering her lips towards his ear, hands roaming upon his abdomen, bracing for something.

and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me