"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
but now we're sleeping at the edge, holding something we don't need all this delusion in our heads is going to bring us to our knees
She thinks of him, sometimes. The man pulled back from death itself. The man who had torn back the veil and been the first she had met who had crossed that threshold. The fact that her father had done so several times, that her mother could easily traverse the worlds, does not matter to him because there were not him. They did not have the kind of secrets in their eyes that had stoked some dark flame in her heart.
Aurorae did not have such secrets in her, but that did not stop her craving them.
Did not stop her going too far into the shadows, looking for things she should leave alone.
It has been months, perhaps years, since she has seen him face-to-face, although she has seem him from afar—watched him when she was certain that he could not see her. Tonight though, that need to know more is more than she can bear. It spreads in her chest until it feels too tight. Until her throat feels like it is on fire and she can no longer swallow this distance, this forced separation from him.
She pulls the starlight behind her like a flowing cape, the silvery light flowing like a living thing, breathing in rhythm with each step that she takes. There is no hesitation in her steps as she walks up to him, nothing but her typical unapologetic boldness. “Dacian,” her voice is still throaty, seemingly always breathless, and her slanted eyes piercing as they study him with an unabashed hunger.
The last time they had met, she had been young—barely on the cusp of adulthood. This time, she is grown. Her face elegant, the lines clearly of her mother, her legs long and lean. Her tail swishes slowly behind her, the northern lights of them barely brushing the ground as she angles her head to the side.
She takes a breath and then relinquishes the starlight for a moment, letting it hover in the air behind her before she inhales and draws it close—creating a small sanctuary of starlight. She had no intention of him leaving until she had satiated her curiosity of where he had been when she had not been able to watch.
you have forsaken all the love you've taken sleeping on a razor there's nowhere left to fall
He thinks of her, of course, because that is simply the way of him.
He fixates on things, he obsesses. He wants to make them his, wants to keep them locked away or pressed against him and held tight. Devonae had been the first, and he had loved her. But he does not remember when love turned into obsession. He does not remember when love turned to toxic poison, when he realized if he could not have her he did not want anyone to have her. She disappeared (the memories are foggy, though — did she disappear, or did he kill her? He has killed before, he remembers that in dreams, in snapped twigs of the forest sounding like snapping bones), and she took with him what was left of his sanity.
He did not try to replace her. Not exactly. He did not try to romance anyone, he did try to lure them in with false promises and charm. He was ruthless and he took what he wanted and left behind what he did not. He doesn't remember most of their faces, and certainly not any of their names.
The chasm in his chest refused to fill, and when he finally returned to the land of the living it was so yawning, so large, he couldn’t even feel it anymore. He didn't know it was possible to split apart like that.
It left plenty of room for her to take up space. To light up the dark with her northern light-skin and the starlight she spun, and he hated how badly he wanted her from the moment he saw her.
He had forgotten what it was like to want — to truly want. To have his nights haunted, to feel that incessant itch beneath his skin and that ache in his gut.
He disappears and he does not look for her, because he is afraid of what will happen if he takes her. She is young and lovely and he is damaged and destroyed, and he will drag her down to the slums just so that he doesn’t have to be there alone.
And yet when he sees her it never occurs to him to do what he has convinced himself is the right thing (it's so easy to know what's right when he is alone and the drug is not sitting there in front of him, just waiting). Instead of walking away from her he fixes his dark eyes onto her beautiful face, lingering over the cloak of starlight that billows behind her, and he goes to her.
She says his name, and he thinks it would be impossible for it to sound so sweet from anyone else’s mouth, and something inside of him shudders in delight. “Aurorae,” his voice is still rough, but her name feels familiar, because he has said it in his mind a hundred times. They are both bold in how easily they close the space between each other, neither of them shy in how they push against the tension, as though daring the other to step away, or to come closer. He eyes the starlight as it settles around them, but his gaze always goes back to her, and the smile on his face is a ghost of the boyish charm he had once possessed when he asks her, “Are you here to tell me all the new secrets you have discovered?”
Dacian
your body's aching, every bone is breaking nothing seems to shake it, it just keeps holding on
but now we're sleeping at the edge, holding something we don't need all this delusion in our heads is going to bring us to our knees
The tension is a tangible thing, and she relishes in it. She relishes the feeling of it sparking across her skin and dragging down her throat. The way that she comes alive beneath his sharp, hooded gaze—as though he has so many secrets just hiding beneath the surface. She has always been drawn to the dark things, to the shadows and creatures that crawl there, and it isn’t a surprise—not really.
She was made of the shadows. Made of the very things that turn his gaze dark.
So she finds herself continually drawn back to them, to him.
It thrills her that he steps forward again. That the space between them isn to closed by her alone. It brings a fierce light to her eyes, something that brightens her face—bringing the feminine lines into stark relief.
Her lips pull into a small smile when he finally does say her name, wishing that she could memorize the way it sounds, and there is a small purr in the back of her throat in response to it. She studies his face, drops her gaze to his mouth, before bringing it back up to his brown eyes—so impossibly dark.
“I am here to find out all of your secrets,” she counters easily, the light of their starlight shelter reflecting back onto her, causing a shimmer to break out against the curve of her haunches.
“Are you ready to tell me?” She drops her head a little and looks up at him through her lashes. Last time, she had been certain that he would tell her the things that have molded him and been left wanting more. This time, she has no illusions about his desire to keep such things tucked away.
But she would no be who she is if she did not at least ask.
you have forsaken all the love you've taken sleeping on a razor there's nowhere left to fall
He wonders how much she can see on his face. If she can see the intensity of which he stares at her, if she can feel the hunger that coils and leaves an ache inside of him. It does nothing to stop him, of course. His gaze does not break, does not lessen as he memorizes the sharp, feminine angles of her face, softened by the starlight. Can she feel how badly he wants to touch her? How badly he craves to feel the warmth of her beneath his lips, to feel the life that must thrum beneath her skin? He has not touched anyone in any capacity since he has been back. He has not caved to any one of his physical desires – sexual or otherwise.
He knows that tonight that he will.
He knows, because when he notices the way the light shimmers across her curves that it takes all of his resolve to not take her right then and there.
It is only the fact that she has set herself apart from so many others that forces him to swallow his lust and find some semblance of control. He wants her willing, not afraid. He wants to keep her, and he knows he cannot keep her if he hurts her.
Some of his strength crumbles when she speaks, and though it incites another crooked smile to his face, it also brings him forward. He does not stop until he is close enough to feel the heat that radiates from her, until he can hear the softness of her breathing. Then he reaches, his mouth against the groove of her throat when he murmurs, “What do you want to know?” His lips linger there, before dragging them up behind her ear and then beneath the strands of her mane, and he drinks in all that he can in case she pulls away, as though this touch might be all that he has.
Dacian
your body's aching, every bone is breaking nothing seems to shake it, it just keeps holding on
06-28-2020, 12:35 AM (This post was last modified: 06-28-2020, 12:37 AM by 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
you have forsaken all the love you've taken sleeping on a razor there's nowhere left to fall
She all but offers herself freely to him, and she does not understand how dangerous that is.
Not because he is going to hurt her; he never hurts who he wants to keep. He had never been violent against Devonae, but others had not been as lucky. Aurorae had been lucky — or unlucky —to captivate him from the start, and to have her in front of him soft and willing, with that sweet purring of her throat, that was enough to sink him. It is dangerous because now he would be reluctant to let her go, no matter how little control he actually had over her. She was not rightfully his; in fact, with her stars and her northern lights, he does not see how she could ever belong to anyone. Keeping her would be like trying to capture the night sky, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knows this.
Yet instead of being willing to relinquish the idea of keeping her it only made that ache in his gut all the more incessant.
It makes him push hungrily against her, his chest now touching hers, his nose buried beneath her mane and caressing the warmth of her skin. “I’m not as fascinating as you think,” he says into her neck, exploring all that he can reach from where he stands. He moves slowly despite the want that is building, despite the way he hungrily drinks in every curve with his eyes. His touch remains steady, deliberate, gauging her response — what happens when he presses a touch behind her ear, the way she breathes when his lips run down the length of her neck. “I’ve done terrible things,” and though it is vague, it is true; he has murdered, he has raped, but he doesn’t tell her that. “Some of them justified, some of them not.” Somewhat of a lie — he tells himself they were all justified, even if his subconscious knows they were not.
“But if you still want all of me,” he pauses, having drawn back to drag his mouth down her cheek, to settle at the soft corner of her lips, his voice now a hot rasp instead of its usual gravel, “I can give you that.”
Dacian
your body's aching, every bone is breaking nothing seems to shake it, it just keeps holding on
It does not occur to her that he might want to keep her. That she might be something to be kept. She feels free, feels endless, feels eternal. Feels herself stretch across the night sky and consume all of the shadows that she finds. That he is the most fascinating, that she sinks into him like a black hole does not escape her notice, but it is not enough to make her think she might stay here forever. Visit often, yes. Visit more frequently than the other constellations that she might explore—but be fastened in one spot?
It’s an impossible thought.
It does not cross her mind.
So she relinquishes herself in the moment and does not feel the irons clasp around her wrists. Does not feel the weight settle across her shoulders. Instead she indulges her curiosities and wants and desires in the roll of his hot breath across her skin, in the feel of the way he takes so readily. Her breath shudders in her throat as he explores her neck. Her skin shivers beneath him. She gasps lightly at his touch.
She is a willing participant, not bothering to hide her pleasure at him—her delight in him.
“Tell me of the terrible things you have done,” she whispers, wanting to hear it all. Wanting to know of the blood on his hands—the sins that stain him. There is something deeply wrong with her, but she doesn’t know. Something terrible in her that craves that—that points her South instead of North. Not so much that she wishes them against her, but enough that she wishes them done. Wishes them committed.
She leans into his kiss, bites at the velvet of his lip.
“Give yourself to me,” she commands and somehow makes it sound like submission.
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
you have forsaken all the love you've taken sleeping on a razor there's nowhere left to fall
He can feel what tenebrous control he has slowly begin to dissolve further with every breath, every tremble that she offers him. He is greedy though, and the little parts of her that she offers are not enough – likely will never be enough. He wants all of her in the worst possible ways, is already imagining what she will feel like beneath him. Will – because he will not accept any other answer. Whatever kindness was left inside of him was buried beneath a lifetime of mistakes that had turned him to granite, and it was all too easy to fall back on the force he was accustomed to.
But the quiet gasps that his touch evokes from her throat makes him think he won’t have to force her at all.
A groan builds in the back of his throat at the feel of her teeth against his lips, and when he pushes forward there is an all new intensity to the way that he touches her. “I have murdered,” he murmurs hotly against her neck, teeth scraping and lips caressing the slope of it. He does not stop at her shoulder this time, the bulk of his body now pushed firmly against her side as he explores the beautiful curve of her slim sides. His breath rolls hotly across the darkness of her, curling across where the aurora light reaches, his nose sliding along her ribs and towards her flank. “More than once, though I could no longer tell you why I did it,” he continues, his voice now hazy in his want. There had been at least four, he thinks, and though he remembers the feel of skulls crushing beneath his hooves the murkiness of death has kept most of the memories hidden.
His teeth ache with the need to bite, to sink them into the suppleness of her hip, but instead the one that he plants is slow, almost gentle, followed by another tender caress of his lips. “I have been with numerous women, almost none of them willing,” and he does not remember their faces. They had been disposable, they had served their purpose and there was nothing more he wanted from them. He thinks that this, above all else, should make her recoil from him, and he presses all the more closer in response. His neck drapes across her haunches to drag his mouth along the opposite hip from where he stands, arcing his neck to pull her into him. “I will give myself to you, but only if you give yourself in return.” Otherwise he would simply take her anyway.
Dacian
your body's aching, every bone is breaking nothing seems to shake it, it just keeps holding on
Each confession results in a shiver from her—but it’s not from fear. Instead it is a wave of desire that crashes through her, rising up against the tides of her heart. She can feel the violence coiled beneath him now, the darkness that threatens to overtake him, and she feels something similar in her too. Something that rises against the back of her throat, something hot and desperate and hungry.
The sin of him covers her hands and she gladly plunges them into the murk. She gladly dives into the depthless ocean of him and does not care how it will change her, how she has already been changed.
She is born of shadow and darkness anyway.
He is her birthright, she thinks.
He grabs at her, pulls her close, and she yields. There is nothing in her that would strike him down although she knows that she could. She could pull the heavens down between them as a forceful thing. Could sever the tie between them with a barrier of galaxies. But she doesn’t. Doesn’t want to.
If he breaks her flesh, if he crushes her beneath him, it will because she wants him to.
“Why should I give you what you can take for yourself?” She looks back at him with hooded eyes, a sleepy smile curling at the edges of her lips. She reaches forward and skims her mouth over his hip, feeling the heat underneath her touch like an inferno, feeling the tightening in her chest and the way that her blood simmers with need. She could submit further, she thinks—would gladly fold before him.
But he is a man who demands, who takes.
And she holds herself back, waiting for the violence to unleash.
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
you have forsaken all the love you've taken sleeping on a razor there's nowhere left to fall
She murmurs her version of consent and he hardly hears her. Asking had already been more of an act, a twisted kind of formality rather than a true concern. He was not one to ask, was much more prone to just taking, but there was a part of him clinging to this idea that he should treat her differently.
Yet he doesn’t.
His mind is already a haze, intoxicated and buzzing with want for her, and he falls back into his old patterns. This time when he sinks his teeth into her hip he is nearly ruthless. His teeth are not sharp but he knows they will still bruise the satin of her night-sky skin, when he uses the grip he has on her to nearly drag her into place.
He releases but only because his teeth now seek her withers, and then her neck as he pulls himself on top of her, and then inside of her. He does not bother to hide the groan that builds in his throat once he is enveloped by the warmth of her, no longer able to control the inferno that boils to the surface of him.
He has never been gentle, and he does not tame himself for her.
His lips and teeth leave heated touches and sharp bites against her neck and shoulders, his knees gripped against the delicate curve of her ribcage. Somewhere above the waves of lust and need he recognizes that she is beautiful, that she is far more wild and powerful than any he has taken beneath him — that she may actually be his match, the one to push and pull against everything that he is, the one with the power to send him to his knees.
But in this moment he lets himself get drunk off the brief power he has over her, the ability to control the rhythm at which he takes her, to use his teeth to pull her further into him with each move he makes. He reaches, teeth grazing a hot trail down her throat, his dark skin now sleek with sweat, before his body begins to shudder with his release. His mouth finds the curve of her shoulder with another groan, and there is a moment where he grips her tighter, his breathing ragged and hot against her skin.
He slides from her, languid but still humming with the residual high. He presses a kiss to her damp side where he had bruised her with either his teeth or his hooves, he isn’t sure anymore. “Stay with me,” he says, throaty and almost sweet, another demand posed as a request.
Dacian
your body's aching, every bone is breaking nothing seems to shake it, it just keeps holding on
