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Into the Dark

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Author's note: I like music A LOT. When I listen to songs, I mainly enjoy listening to their lyrics, trying to...  Show full author's note »
Author's note: I like music A LOT. When I listen to songs, I mainly enjoy listening to their lyrics, trying to figure out the story behind the music. Recently, the songs I have been listening to have inspired me to write a story about them, explaining my own interpretation of the lyrics. Also, I had to write a creative writing piece for class. But as I wrote more and more about Bixby and Cath, I began to fall in love with characters and get really into my story. If you have actually managed to read this inspiration part, I just want to let you know that I wrote this to Death Cab for Cutie songs. Please listen to their music while you read this story! Not necessary, but it adds to the plot.  « Hide author's note
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15,900.5 HOURS BEFORE THE END, March 27, 2011, 3:30 PM

She rolls over, stretching her long, scarred arms into the air. A tattoo gleams on her shoulder blade; it’s a lion roaring, its sharp teeth suggesting it will tear its way to freedom. Bixby strokes the lion’s mane, tracing its fur down her spotless skin. She bends her arm back awkwardly, and touches his rough cheek. She turns back to him, curling into his furry chest. She twirls a short, dark chest hair around her index finger, her green nail polish rubbing off onto his skin. He pulls her closer,
this is a cuter scene. good job for making it this far!!
and breathes in her smell. Today, she emanates pomegranate. “What are you thinking about?” She asks seductively, her pink lips curling up into her pale cheeks. He brushes back her hair, and runs his hand down her back. He loves the way her skin feels against his calloused hands, like he is dunking his hands in warm water.
“Want to guess?” He presses his lips to her shining forehead. She shrugs into him, and her moist breath disturbing the hairs on his neck. “What are you thinking?” He asks, though not really caring. All he can care about is the smell of pomegranate.
“I love you,” she whispers, her face tilting up towards his. Her eyes shine with something, though he has an unnerving sense that it is not love. More like she is hiding something from him. He shakes his head, banishing his thoughts.
“I love you too, butterfly,” he answers, his brow crinkling with worry as it has done a hundred times before.
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