12-31-2017, 08:07 PM
Don't say I'm out of touch with this rampant chaos; your reality.
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge.
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge.
The caress of his lips – dark and whiskered, pressed into the golden curve of her neck – elicits a shiver that traverses the length of her spine, causing the finely preened feathers of her broad wingspan to bristle and shift under the soft splendor of the morning light. Her pale lashes drape over her one eye, while the sullen eye socket is tucked away from view, as her cheek is nestled closer to the warmth of his neck. There, she can hear the rhythmic and soft thump, thump, thump of his steady heartbeat, and it is more than enough to make her feel at ease.
She, too, has her own secrets to carry and keep – she does not ask him what horrors he had seen; what evil he had committed (she had her own – she had murdered her father, a figment of her imagination and yet it had felt all too real. She could only imagine what he had been forced to face in the darkness and uncertainty of certain death. She did not ask, she would not ask, because deep within her still mending, aching heart, she already knows the sin he committed. The sacrifice he had made to return to her, to return to their son.
Though she may not realize it, there is one defining difference between he and her –
He knew the young boy he crushed beneath his weight was nothing more than a vision.
But she did not know that her father was a hallucination.
She murdered Elysium, believing through and through that he was flesh and blood before her.
And she would do it again, if it meant survival. If it meant returning to her children, to Dahmer.
She carried a darkness far deeper and soul-consuming than he knew.
Would Dahmer do it again, if he had not seen through the façade of a dark and malevolent God?
If he had not realized it was all but a hoax?
She is lost (yet again!) to her own thoughts, dismal and terrible as they are, and when his voice – soft, rumbling against her skin – interrupts her reverie, it awakens her desire for him, as her lips and teeth made work of the entanglement of twigs and brush knotted into the darkness of his tresses.
”Strength,” she murmurs softly to him, hazel eye seeking his of glacial blue. ”I do not want a sanctuary, Dahmer. There are enough of those. One day, war will come, and diplomacy will not be enough to carry us through the fire.” She is quiet for a moment, as soft feather-light kisses trail up the crease of his neck and against the tenderness of his throat. Power. Command. Capability, above any other. ”I want an army.”
She, too, has her own secrets to carry and keep – she does not ask him what horrors he had seen; what evil he had committed (she had her own – she had murdered her father, a figment of her imagination and yet it had felt all too real. She could only imagine what he had been forced to face in the darkness and uncertainty of certain death. She did not ask, she would not ask, because deep within her still mending, aching heart, she already knows the sin he committed. The sacrifice he had made to return to her, to return to their son.
Though she may not realize it, there is one defining difference between he and her –
He knew the young boy he crushed beneath his weight was nothing more than a vision.
But she did not know that her father was a hallucination.
She murdered Elysium, believing through and through that he was flesh and blood before her.
And she would do it again, if it meant survival. If it meant returning to her children, to Dahmer.
She carried a darkness far deeper and soul-consuming than he knew.
Would Dahmer do it again, if he had not seen through the façade of a dark and malevolent God?
If he had not realized it was all but a hoax?
She is lost (yet again!) to her own thoughts, dismal and terrible as they are, and when his voice – soft, rumbling against her skin – interrupts her reverie, it awakens her desire for him, as her lips and teeth made work of the entanglement of twigs and brush knotted into the darkness of his tresses.
”Strength,” she murmurs softly to him, hazel eye seeking his of glacial blue. ”I do not want a sanctuary, Dahmer. There are enough of those. One day, war will come, and diplomacy will not be enough to carry us through the fire.” She is quiet for a moment, as soft feather-light kisses trail up the crease of his neck and against the tenderness of his throat. Power. Command. Capability, above any other. ”I want an army.”
Ellyse
(The nightmare) I built my own world to escape
@[Dahmer]