yeah, yeah, you're asking for it with every breath you breathe in
( COME ON, HIT ME )
He tells me that he loves me and a shiver runs down my spine.
We're lying here, our bodies intertwined on the soft, cotton sheets, and he tells me that he loves me. He is warm, his breath soft against my neck as he pulls me towards him. His voice is a gentle whisper as he ropes a hand around my waist and arches my back to him, my neck tilted and vulnerable. There is a ripple of his muscles as he moves, and I can feel the strength in between each subtle movement of his body. Protection. That's what some people call it. Protection. He could be protection, and this could be safety. He's bigger than me – a giant in comparison, and I can still feel his warm breath against the contours of my neck. There's a vein that runs from my brain and to my heart. The jugular, and it's throbbing with the subtly of my pulse. I can hear it. When he tells me that he loves me, everything is gone. No fucking world. No more fucking morals. Just lunatics and fakers and the filth of the streets. We lie together on the blue cotton sheets and I am reminded of the nature of every creature alive – every living thing that I've ever strived to be. Humanity. Morality. Society. They're all crumbling against the warmth of his breath against my neck, and I know – I've always known – that I'll never need them anyway. The society we lived in today, no longer existed. It was just me and him. We are what society has tried to crush, lying here together on this warm, comforting bed.
Nothing else matters. Ethics crumble when he opens his mouth. We are not do-gooders or high standing citizens. We are nothing. When the civilized people fall apart, we'll always have each other. As he tells me that he loves me, his touch on my body is firm, but in the pads of his fingers I can feel tenderness. His voice is void of emotion or anything at all, but emotion isn't what connects us. It's instinctual, and somehow, out of all of that, he can tell me still that he loves me. Somehow, out of all of that, I'm wanted – needed by someone. Content within a world where at least one person manages to look me in the eye and assure me that they desire me. He tells me he loves me within a world of hate. The look on his face is sad, but I only glance at it for one moment before my heavy eyelids close. I bury my nose into his neck, breathing in his scent, his familiar smell. Feeling the pressure against my skull now. I pop my eyes open, but there was nothing on my head. Just his hands on my waist and his steady breathing in my ear. I was content with life. He was, too. I had him, he had me. His fingers toyed with a stray piece of my hair as I traced his jaw, strong and masculine.
"You know I love you, right?" He says, looking me in the eyes. I nod and lean in for a kiss, it was sweet, natural. Then, there's pressure against my skull, and I open my eyes once more to his wicked smile. He tells me he loves me once more, and pulls the trigger.
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