[SE] Sew me what you know

// If the world was ending, I'd wanna be next to you //

He'd once thought he'd be nervous of all these unknown portions of her and the paths to reach them. Nothing worse than being on a dance floor and realizing you don't know the steps, or even the song. Yet, he finds that her body seems to call out to his with something that's rooted deep, hand and mouth bending to her bidding and angling for each gasped response. He might be unpracticed, but he has spent a long part of his life wanting her, and he means to fill every crack of that longing with the sound of her pleasure. From written word in books he's read to imagined moments paced out in his mind, he's got some basis to build from, and the rest he uses her to guide him.

His hips yield to the pressure of her leg, dipping deeper into the bracket of her thighs, the friction of his cock dragging against her enough to tear a raw groan from his teeth. It's part of what feeds his shucking of her pants, arousal like a pulse through him as she's further revealed and sent bucking beneath his hand. He doesn't fumble as much as he expected, her opening hot and slick against the exploratory sink of his fingers, inviting him in before he's even asked. The feel of her against his hand sends a shudder of anticipation along his spine, and he's powerless to feed the cravings she requests.

His mouth feeds kisses around her panting exclamations while his two fingers set a pace against her, his thumb brushing against her clit by chance every so often more than expertise. "Tell me Mel, tell me how to make you feel good."

ISKRA

// I'd wanna hold you just for a while and die with a smile //

Melita

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

Nerves weren’t typically a part of Melita’s daily excursions – and though this was something wholly out of any fragment or thought spared throughout most days, she handled it with the same audacious, emboldened bravado that accompanied her lifestyle. Strung together on sensations and instinct and driving pulses alone, she probably would’ve simply followed the destination to pleasure and desire with no distinct pathway. Just spinning and contorting and coiling on sensations, shuddering and shivering under his touch, mind long since gone, the notions that he’d be apprehensive didn’t occur to her either.

She opened her eyes briefly, taking him in, at his inquiry, brows furrowing slightly, lost in the question. Then her free hand flickered away from the play of muscles around his abs, and down towards the fingers coiling within her, artfully guiding him right into the center, and gasping around all of it once it’d been found. “Here, touch here,” she whispered in between moans, brow dipping, placed along his shoulder as if bracing for some inevitable impact. Her thighs clenched around him, trembling along the wake, feeling like she was tipping over some edge, but staring it down regardless.

Then, perhaps while in the middle of the echoes and throngs, the realization that Iskra might’ve been waiting for the same only just then occurred to her, so she turned her head, whispered into his ear. “And you?” What did he want?

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

// If the world was ending, I'd wanna be next to you //

He's an apt student, always fond of reading and learning even if he spends much of his time in repetition of labor instead of thought. He follows the lesson her hand teaches, mapping out the regions, testing the depth of pressure or the graze of it, until her convulsions of euphoria are something he can conjure as reliably as his flame (neither of which have been mastered, yet).

It's a wonderful thing, to give her the throws of pleasure that he can feel echo through him, unrepentant with his worship of the seeing her unraveling. As her own question drifts across, he's tempted to claim the delivery of her pleasure is all he needs, selfish with giving. It's not a lie, he's certain he'll find his own end in the wake of hers, or several of hers. He simpers though, because the grasp and trail of every one of her touches had been enough to make his erection jump, eager for more. "You," he breathes, and it's enough to snap the spell of her squirming. He withdraws his hand moistened with her heat and tears her pants the rest of the way free.

"You," he growls, hauling her against him after stripping the leggings entirely. His hands fold possessively against her hips with the tug, curling under to the curve of her ass to lift it up more. as he settles back between her hips. His head brushes the warmth between her thighs as he leans over, a drag of his lips, more than a kiss, set to her naval as the sensation shudders through him. "Only ever you, Mel," he groans, pushing against the heat of her with a slow, steady burying of his entire length. It nearly splinters every bit of him from the inside out, and in response the hearth roars to a greater intensity.

ISKRA

// I'd wanna hold you just for a while and die with a smile //

Melita

I never had a chance to be soft
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.

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

// If the world was ending, I'd wanna be next to you //

The fit of her is like nothing he's ever imagined. It sends a full shudder through his body, hot and prickling as the lightning that hums in his veins. It drags him over her, weak to this heat, drowning in this flame that burns clean through every thought and feeling, leaving nothing but the brunt of pleasure to spark again and again against her flesh like they have always been flint.

As she asks him to wait he goes so still, breath hitching. Had he hurt her? Done something wrong? Missed a crucial part of this unknown? These thoughts flicker faster than the fire behind them, clawing through the euphoria with something that'll always be more important, her. There's no twinge of anything but echoed need in her voice though, and as he waits, she shuffles into a different stance, granting better space for him to reach for their enjoyment.

The way her mouth claims him unfreezes him. He submits to every grasp and pull of her lips, her tongue, her passion while he sets a rhythm against her. "Mel" he moans at the edge of her cheek, quivering with every strike of his hips like he's no better than the bowstring in her armaments. "You feel—" he can't manage the word, not with heat blooming so fierce he's forgotten language for the sake of chasing pleasure.

ISKRA

// I'd wanna hold you just for a while and die with a smile //

Melita

I never had a chance to be soft
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.

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

// If the world was ending, I'd wanna be next to you //

Her lack of reluctance—indeed, her rising urgency for more, for all—feeds him better than anything else could. It snarls at every flicker of doubt, sets its teeth against his fears, and tears with a viciousness only love can manage. Not words she’s said, but an affection written in the drive of her heels, the nips to his ear, the gasp that parts her lips as if this is the first time either of them has truly been alive. It frees him, strips the weight from his chest, and his pace quickens with it.

The challenge of her question drags out a clipped laugh, one that presses into her skin as he submits again and again to the pull of her touch. Each drift and grasp of her hand is another strike that sparks against him, heated with a want he has never chased this deeply before, dizzying with its depths.

When her press shifts, less an ask for more of him than a demand for movement, he lingers only a moment—stealing the last tremors of this newfound pleasure—then yields. Who is he to deny her a thing? He rolls with her, steadying her as they turn, until she sits astride him. A long groan escapes as she takes him fully, the full weight and heat of her enveloping him anew. "Incredible," he growls the answer at last, hips thrusting up, hands clamped to the curve of her ass to drag her down, reveling in the slick rhythm of her rise and fall and the reverberation that it sends through her breasts. "You feel incredible."

ISKRA

// I'd wanna hold you just for a while and die with a smile //

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

// If the world was ending, I'd wanna be next to you //

He has been on the edge of coming apart since he shucked his pants free, eagerness for the unknown the thief of enjoyment for it. Only with stuttering pauses and sheer force of will has he managed to hang on this long. With her guiding the charge now, the pace bending to her will as the world is want to do, he is helplessly drug into the undertow of her rising current.

Each shudder that courses through him, bold as lightning strikes over nightfall, tips him that much closer into her oblivion. His grip tightens, seeking something grounding, while his heels drive against the floor for purchase amid this maelstrom she's whipped up between her thighs. Yet, he cannot help but angle his hips for more, chasing each rush of heat that sinks around him, finding where the depths of her ends might lie, wanting to follow her into the plummet same as any other one of their adventures.

Her question may as well have been a trigger. The effort to speak loosens the restraint he's guarded, and with it every cord of muscle seizes and frays into flame. The hearth behind them roars, the mantle earning dark scorch marks as the fire climbs too high and too wild for the brick to fully contain it. He keeps her seat snug against him as he gives one final buck into her, teeth snapping down around her name that melts into a groan amid the inferno.

Everything slackens after a moment, sweat beading around his temple as breath marches out fast and heavy. "Fuck Mel," he praises, raw over the embers of his consciousness.

ISKRA

// I'd wanna hold you just for a while and die with a smile //

Melita

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

Maybe he’d been holding back the whole time, waiting for her to come over. A selfless precision she couldn’t quite fathom in the interim, but something sparked against her mind just the same – a little perusal for later, when they weren’t heightened by a thousand other things. But no sooner had she uttered the whisper and grated it into their movements, did he seem to unfurl with a last plunge.

She took it for what it was worth; claiming and taking her own with a pulsing, heated crescendo. A delightful, satisfying fringe, escalated and pulsed right down into her very core, moaning somewhere against him, last mewls and pants until the embers cooled, not so kindled, not so incensed.

Lifting herself off his cock, with a very wolfish, cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, she opted to remain straddled across his hips, and just leaned down, folding her arms across his chest, gilded eyes studying him. She didn’t really know what else to do or say after the shuddering maelstrom of a finale; so she was content to stare, poised like a queen. “So,” she uttered as a starting point, thinking he’d have something to add.

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

// If the world was ending, I'd wanna be next to you //

The weight of her leaning down atop him is like a nice blanket, comfortable for it's added hug. The two of them quivering against each other with the aftershocks of what they'd built up and broken apart drags out a contented sigh. One limp hand folds lightly over her back, fingers nipping at the ends of the fire-brushed curls that trail there. His other hand stays splayed across her hip, lazily tracing irregular shapes against her bare skin with absentminded bliss.

He tucks his chin at her voice, the sound an attempt to drag him back from the sea he'd slipped into, floating idly in the current of her heat, her moans, her feel. The motion grants him a slightly better view of her, gaze coming to life over the slope of his chest and the rise of her perched there, folded like a dream. He smiles boyishly at it, something half shy and touched with wonder. "So," he agrees, a huff of disbelieving laughter finishing the sentiment.

In actuality though, after drawing in a careful breath, afraid to disturb the spell with something foolish or heavy, he murmurs to her. "I could lay here forever, with you."

ISKRA

// I'd wanna hold you just for a while and die with a smile //

Melita

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

Settled there, she watched him; waiting for something. Maybe regret, like hordes of others had shaped before her – boiled over when she wasn’t enough or wanted or forgotten, shunned, easily swept, abandoned, to the side. Maybe shame, because she hadn’t been quite what he’d craved after all. She could feel that primeval, inherent armor threatening to slide over her frame like an invisible guard, trying to protect her before the inevitable gutted her in the ribs –

But he just stayed; hands straying over her skin and plucking at her hair. Her head tilted, and she took a deep, steadying breath, trying to forge away all those insecurities – because none of those awful thoughts had ever really been Iskra. Just a slate of individuals no longer in her life.

So she smirked, rendering her intrepid daring again, one finger tracing the muscled contours on his chest. “What a bold claim.” What if I hold you to it? she almost said, but kept along her tongue, her own audacity flaring to elsewhere. “But this is nice.” Somewhere within her ribcage, the sudden thought that they could’ve had this years ago, if they weren’t so melancholic or dim or torn at the edges, but kept that lodged and locked away too. Perhaps that didn’t matter –  they’d grabbed and snatched something here, on their own, despite the time and foolishness.

Nor, of course, did she have any thoughts about the future; the present surprising, awe-inspiring, and beguiling on its own.

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

// If the world was ending, I'd wanna be next to you //

Mel, ever the one to be a bit more realistic and grounded, neither drifting into the darker tides that drag him down nor floating away on the lighter currents that have him bounce too high sometimes, is the exact anchor he needs. Amusement flickers over his features as she neither denies nor agrees, entirely, content just to remain, as he is, tangled anew in something that feels unknown. He has a multitude of questions, but the thought of asking any of them, worse of knowing them, feels like a disruption he'd rather not risk. Maybe he'd ask, little by little, with each moment he tries to carve out with her, through smiles and hand holds and lips that are braver than they were on the ice earlier today.

"Suppose we might get hungry eventually," he admits, head tilting to the side where a mug of cider has long grown cold. Near it, the pillow that started it all lays abandoned, and the piles of needle and thread that they forgot. "We could shower," he offers reasonably, no suggestion to it, just the simple extension of warm water to cradle them in a different heat. "Then make dinner... lounge around and finish our cloaks." He glances back at her, a question in the arch of his 'brow. "Or, stay here." Forever.

ISKRA

// I'd wanna hold you just for a while and die with a smile //

Melita

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

Her brow arched, the subtle challenge only taken to practical, sensible, rational sentiments moments later. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled, and she didn’t even bother being embarrassed, shrugging through the grumbles. Her eyes flickered over to where the cloaks and sewing had been ultimately abandoned by the pillow fight, then to the incriminating cushions themselves, and thereafter over to the tossed clothing laying haphazardly over the small room. She had no idea where the companions had wandered off to – but likely the animals had scattered the instant other motions started. “How about a shower…,” she started, gaze going right back to him to see whatever he concocted or conspired after the suggestion, leaving that open-ended on whether it was together or not.

“Then dinner and cloaks,” she finalized, the prospects of lounging around after their day sounding exceedingly better than wandering back out into the snow or meandering her way home. Though, nose wrinkling, she made no effort to move – waiting until he sealed the decision.

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