Mine, if only.

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Herein lies the realm of dreams, where dreamers who are scattered all over the world in the physical can come together in the mysterious world of dreams. Remember, unless one is a Dreamwalker, there is no control over dreams. Ever. Anything can happen, and by threading a dream, you are subject to whomever can walk dreams and the whims of Storytellers.

Mine, if only.

Postby Seodai on September 9th, 2011, 6:14 pm

It was the taste of the earth, first, that became the point of focus. A flavor, a taste without name. Impossible to express with something as innefective and benign as language. It was the promise of harvest, the fall of rain, the essence of Bala. Her lips, her kiss, her breasts. Warmth and promise, life and reproduction. The cycle of things, the urge to carry on. To craft life with hand and body, to forestall the end of all things with the beginning of new ones. It was Bala's embrace. Mother, sister, lover. Life and love, pressed against his brow as she blessed him with a kiss. And then another.

"Mother," Seo murmured against the crook of her elbow, his face nuzzling into her there. She smiled at him, that sight that still arrested him, and pushed her divine fingers into her hair. She knew his heart, his question, his fear before he could ever bring it to his lips.

"Love, Seodai. It will always find a way."

Seodai, like a confused child, could not so easily accept this explanation. He wanted to bury his fears in the comfort of her warmth, her body. He wanted her divine touch to chase away his worry. But he received a smile, only, the knowing of her bright eyes, the brushing of her fingertips across his lips.

And then it was the taste of earth, again. And campfire. Wood, burning just above his head, flickering and popping. Gum, the wood. Sticky, sweet, damp. Shooting tiny sparks from the fire, flying into the darkness of night. There was stirring, making known the rough woolen blanket beneath him. Bala was gone, but her presence was not. With him always, in every plant, in every blade of grass. In the very earth he fought to nurture. There was her warmth, the warmth of the fire. And... skin?

Skin, beside of him. Bare. Nestled into the curve of his body. Warm and soft, like silk. Or satin. Seodai stirred, rolling towards that comfort, that allure. His hand lifted, stroking along the curve of a bare hip. So lovely, so pale. The object of his affections shifted, and Seodai could feel the smile he did not yet see.

"You should be sleeping," he scolded lightly, his chin dropping so that his lips could catch the curve of a perfect shoulder. His hands, so accustomed to coaxing life from nothingness, continued their exploration. The juncture of strong thighs, the weight and heat of pleasure. And, when his lover sighed, and rocked into his touch, Seodai ventured upwards instead. Across a flat, strong stomach. Upwards, upwards still. Learning and knowing every inch of the frame pressed into him, until his fingers curled against a strong jawline, and coaxed that face around.

That face. Burned into his mind, emblazoned onto his heart, his spirit. Dwelling in his soul. He knew every inch of it, now. Every tic, every expression, every tiny part. Oh, how he loved it. That furrowed brow, those full lips. The regal, almost aristocratic features. Gods, but he was perfect, melding into fall with color and expression. Leth's beloved, and his own.

Seodai sought a kiss, the heat of their mouths combined, the dance of tongue. He nipped, ever so lightly, at the full bottom lip. He stroked the body he coveted every moment of the day with a familiarity and skill that could only come from knowledge, from experience. From hours spent exploring this frame, learning to beget pleasure and delight with as much ease as he crafted life in hostile terrain.

His lover turned into him, welcoming him with open arms. Seo sank into his warmth, his love, his acceptance. The world blurred and softened around him, until there were only those piercing eyes, the heat of pleasure, the union of their bodies. The sway of this dance, slick, sweaty skin one against the other. Taut muscle, eager hands, gripping thighs. And then the end - shattering, their shared, heated breath as they panted, as thirsty for the night air as they had been for one another.

Euphoria, washing over every inch of him, consuming him. Making every fiber of his being tremble, cling to the moment, the beloved, the night. And, with a shuddering breath, Seodai named it. His affection, his obsession, his need. He called it aloud, in a voice that was more moan than enunciation. He blessed it, with reverence he might afford to Bala, or any of the divine. Into hair damp with sweat, mussed across a beautiful brow, Seodai pressed his lips to give it name.

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The Green Thumb
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