[mature] but now we're sleeping at the edge; dacian

[aurorae]

aurorae

Perhaps she should be afraid of him.

Perhaps she should know that beneath those dark eyes is a death sentence waiting for her.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

But she does not. She cannot. Not when her every nerve is attuned to him. Not when her very existence is written in a way that is designed for someone like him. Her heart is a blackened, crooked thing—every inch of her writ in a way to not only apologize, but welcome the shadows. So she gladly dives into the murky waters of him, gladly lets him pull her into the undertow, pouring the water of it into her lungs.

There is an exhale when he closes the distance. Soft and sharp on the edge when his mouth finds her throat, and she murmurs her consent. Aurorae tips her head back to give him access to the vulnerable column of flesh, the elegant curve of it. Life beats there, she knows. All of her. She gladly relinquishes it.

“All of it,” she answers, night sky eyes closed. 

She brings her fine head down again so that she can look at him, the brilliance of her eyes a stark contrast to the darkness of her face. “All of you,” she continues, a coy smile playing on the very edges of her lips. This is dangerous, she knows. This could be the end of her—she knows that too.

But right now, staring into the endless depths of him, the eons of pain and suffering and rage that have formed to create the man in front of her, she decides that there are worse ways for her to go.

Worse fates than turning her life over to his hands and thrilling in the damage wrought.

I said I never knew the moral but I guess that's how the story goes
my lovers never been a mirror in the hour that I needed it most