melita
Melita didn’t have anything for comparison either; but figured they didn’t need it. She wasn’t one for paragons or pedestals, for distinct measurements of affection and ardor. She drew her lines with simplicity, pettiness, and spite – if she’d been wronged, then there’d be another day where vengeance was sweet and swift and laden with such ferocity they’d wished they’d never met her. If she’d been caught into something this blissful, secure, and revered, then why tarnish it, why second guess, why do anything more than chase it down and have it again and again and again? The only regret she might have shared had been amidst how long they’d taken; both stupefyingly incapable of sense and reason.
But she didn’t even need that now; not when there was Iskra and her and a shelter of yearning, longing, and coveted pieces of one another. She pursued now just as she had before – following, dashing, laying waste to doubts and granting pursuits with a bright grin and a compulsion burning brightly in her ribs. A wild thing pressed into stone, alive on synapses and senses and feeling, fingers beginning their own downward plunge, brazenly curling at the hem of his shirt and tugging, wanting to feel the ripple of muscles underneath. Some intentionally brushed over his abdomen, laughing into his mouth at the low register of moaning rumbling and tumbling outward. She could’ve swallowed that all down and consumed it for what it was worth; mercenary, ravenous. Maybe she’d never be quite sated, always aching for a piece, a touch, a constant of him; whether she’d ask was another thing entirely.
The demigod could hear his words echoing against the beat in her ears, gave a light chuckle that soon altered into a moan as his hands maneuvered beneath her dress. Well, that would make two of us, she thought briefly; but then all pattern of ruminations seemed to be curtailed into that heady rush the moment his calloused fingers roamed along her skin. Not quite capable of speech presently, her agreement and accord carried on the spirit of her rapt enthusiasm; insistence persevering, laden in the course of her teeth rambling along the edges of his mouth, to her tongue sliding past his lips, wanton, brazen, taking, scorching, seeking. The fervor rose in the heat of his touch, a gasp, a moan, echoing on sultry whims and a hooded gaze, urging him onward as she leaned into the caress at her breast. Unrestrained in her passion, her keenness and enthusiasm persisted; lower legs intending to hook around his hips, bring him closer and closer still.
salvation doesn't look like light
