Daniel Ciin (miaiphonos) wrote in paxletalelogs, @ 2010-09-07 19:04:00 |
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Entry tags: | aphrodite, ares |
you're my memories
Who: Lia & Samuel.
What: A dream that isn't. (Completed log.)
Where: Eerily shared dreamspace.
When: August 26th. Before all this.
Warnings: Slightly NSFW. Yay nudity! Edit - Okay, we like you lot, so you're getting the full monty. NSFW, explicit adult doings, etc. Enjoy.
It was deep into the dark when Lia started to dream.
Her dreams were often sexy, or lovely, or fun. There were dark ones, sometimes - but she never remembered them very clearly, and tried to push them out of her mind as quickly as possible. But here, now, she slept deeply; more deeply than usual. There was something more - in some deepest part of herself, some place she'd never been, something was stirring. She might have been in a hallway - or at the Grove, the outdoor, high-end shopping plaza in LA - but then she was in SoHo in Manhattan, or home, in her parents' home - but then none of these. She shifted in her sleep, a little mumble passing her slightly parted lips as she kept walking in her dream state, her clothes shifting around her, now in some corridor that was newer, familiar, but not...
Several floors down Samuel turned in his sleep, fitful and restless in the dead of night. He dreamed of work, at first, or so it seemed, but soon the sound of gunfire became softer footfalls, shouting and the echoes of death quieting to a mere breath of wind. He felt he should recognize the space in which he found himself, but its nature and meaning eluded him. So he did as he was wont, wandering the corridors with a sort of feral alertness, seeking out familiarity and meaning in this landscape that now felt all too real. As he moved he felt something within him begin to shift, a subtle sea change unnoticed at first. It was strangely comfortable, right in a way his dreams rarely were. His brow furrowed at the thought, but he turned the corner all the same, his eyes keenly turned to the path opening before him.
It was the most beautiful place she'd ever seen - you could smell a hint of the sea along with the flowers that adorned the garden. But suddenly, she was struck with the most intense emotions - anguish, fury, intense sadness - and they were overwhelming. The long gown - the peplos - and her elaborate hairstyle - seemed normal, though she was aware of them. It came back to her slowly, and as it did, the emotions became sharper, better defined; she, a goddess, the goddess of love and beauty, promised to a lame god, full of bitterness and ugliness. And this while she was so obviously and undeniably matched perfectly to another! Here in her garden, tears streaked down her face and she paced incessantly, trying to find a way to escape her wretched fate, until she heard those familiar footfalls. Her eyes fell upon him as soon as he came into view, and with a choked little cry, she ran to him, throwing her arms around him.
He picked her up the moment she pressed against him, sweeping her up into his bare arms. Any semblance of what he'd been disappeared as he touched her, his false humanity subsumed entirely by something simply more. He pulled her slight weight closer still, until it seemed he could feel the heat of her body even through his thin breastplate. Her tears were a warm and trembling touch against the column of his throat, bringing a new tension to his already clenched jaw. His lips pressed a soft kiss to her temple, a mournful apology written in his every move. This one time he had kept faith, had tried to complete the task he had been called upon to do, and he had failed them both. His loss had been their shared defeat, delivering her up to one so unworthy, so undeserving, the very thought of him set Ares' teeth on edge.
"I've missed you," he said, the force of every unspoken thought weighing down each syllable. His warm breath stirred her hair; with heated fingertips he traced her skin, basking in the feel of an embrace he had counted lost. "It's been too long."
"My Enyalios," she whispered, holding tightly to him, his kiss, his touch, his very breath fortifying her. Having him hold her, being pressed so close immediately soothed her, diminished the awfulness of the hand fate had dealt them. She kissed his neck, his jaw; the strange human shade she'd been dissipated entirely in his arms, leaving only what was true, what was real - them. "My dearest, dearest love," she sighed softly. The words were pale compared to what connected them, what held them together to their marrow. She pulled back from him then, still tight in his arms, just enough to see him. Her hands fluttered to his face, cupping it as she looked into his eyes. Not a note in his voice was missed, not a nuance of language. But to speak it would be too much. Instead, she looked at him, looked into him, without flinching, without hesitating. "He shall never have me. Never."
He felt her forgiveness in the touch of her hands, read the truth of her every word in the brightness of her eyes. It answered any question he might have had, bolstering him with a strength no other could provide. A mirthless smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, wolfish and hungry. "No," he said. "You are mine." He pulled her back to him, then, his lips pressed hard to hers. Even as he kissed her he could not bear to close his eyes, drinking in the sight of her as his tongue pushed past her lips. To taste her again, to feel her cling to him like a lifeline, close as a part of her own soul, was a joy unspeakable. Hephaestus could claim her for millennia and would never know this, no matter what Zeus presumed to decree; of that, Ares was certain. His hands moved over her, shifting to the small of her back, moving her body against him. "I love you," he said, his lips writing each word at the soft bow of her mouth. "And you are mine."
A sigh shuddered against his lips just before she kissed him again, traced the shape of his lower lip with her tongue, parted her lips to his and kissed him deeply. Softly, then, she whispered, "Always, always yours, from the first, from even before we drew breath." Her hands slid to his shoulders, skimming over gold before they reached his bare skin, her eyes closed as though memorizing the feel of him; every hard line of muscle, every inch of skin exposed, the press of his armor to her soft body. Her fingers traced over the gold of his breastplate, light over the buckles that held it on. She looked into his eyes, damp-lashed, breath short, and kissed his lower lip softly.
"I want to feel your skin," she whispered. "I want it to be us, both of us, and nothing else."
His armor was as familiar as his own flesh and bone; his hand moved to the thick strap at his shoulder without so much as the slightest shift away from her, the hand at her back tightening as he loosed that heavy buckle. With that look in her eyes he could deny her nothing, could not for a moment look away as he kissed her again. Reluctantly he set her down, touching her still even as his hand moved to his side. The bindings at his ribs came away quickly enough, and in short order the whole of his armor lay heaped at his feet, as much an offering to her as his own body stripped bare before her. He pressed himself hard against her once more, his hands passing over every inch of skin - her arms, her shoulders, the column of her throat - as he sought the bindings of her own soft robes. "My Areia," he said, his teeth nipping at her ear. "Let me see you."
Pressing her own lips to his cheek, she nodded, then stepped away from him for a moment. Ever aware of his gaze, but she kept her eyes averted, looking at some spot on the ground even as the smile playing at the corners of her mouth belied her coy modesty. Nimble fingers undid her belt, then the brooches at her shoulders; in no time at all, soft fabric fluttered down, pooling at her feet, and she looked at him, then, offering all that she was to him as no one else would ever have. Her movements were almost languid as she moved back to him, putting her hands on his chest, sliding over his skin. She kissed him then, deep and sweet and desperate, her body pressing close to his. "Always yours," she repeated, her lips soft as they brushed his. "Only yours."
He smiled against her mouth, leaning ever toward her warm caress. He felt the crush of her breasts to his chest, his hand reaching up to her to palm that full, taut swell. The pad of his thumb pushed hard over her nipple, his tongue sliding over hers as he touched her. She was beautiful, she was perfect, she was his; every fiber of his being responded to the mere thought. His fingers traced the shape of her, following the outline of every curve, every line of her form. His touch lingered long over those places he had come to love so dearly, gentle, somehow, for all his skin's worn roughness: the slope of her hip, the contour of the small of her back, the smooth plane of her thigh, the wet heat pressed to his body as he raised her leg against him.
As his fingers moved over her, one of her hands went to caress his neck as she slid her tongue under his, her back arching to push her further into his hand, his touch. Her other hand slid down his chest, down his side, around his waist to his back as she tilted her head, kissing him deeper, sweeter, a little hungrier. Gladly, she hooked her leg high around his waist, her sharp little nails scratching at his skin as she moaned softly against his lips. Among so many other things, she loved this about them; her soft curves to his hard lines; the rough pads of his fingers to the soft tips of hers; the sometimes sweetness of his kisses and the sometimes predation of her own. How could she have gambled with them? How could she have taken even the slightest chance with their love? Another tear slid down her cheek and she held to him more tightly, and she pressed herself closer to him, rocking against him more fervently now.
His hand fitted to the soft curve of her flesh, the motions of her body sliding her against his skin. That single tear's path ended at the corner of her mouth, tracing the seam of their lips; it was a different taste of her, all sorrow and suffering and some slight hint of shame. He understood better than he knew how to say. He moved, then, his hands gripping her tightly as he lay her down on the grass. The earth was soft and warm beneath them, accepting them both as they stretched out in the sun. Here they were safe, free from the strictures of bodies not their own, absolved of the guilt others had tried to make them feel. His lips pressed to hers, to the line of her jaw, the hollow of her throat; his fingers slipped against her as he settled between her legs, coaxing new sounds and faint motions from her body beneath him. He breathed her name against the swell of her breast, the faint scratch of his teeth as affectionate as an embrace.
"Enyalios," she whispered a gasp, arching her back, making an offering of herself to him. The leg wrapped around him slid up and down, across his skin, and she rocked her body against his with sweet enthusiasm. There was no comfort like this, no comfort like him. She scratched her nails across his shoulder to his nape, then shifted underneath him, moving to kiss him, pressing her slick skin against the length of him. She kissed his shoulder, his chest, as she lightly pushed him onto his back so she could touch more of him, kiss more of him, her tongue flicking over his nipple as her hand reached down, caressing his thigh, his hip, until she reached him, that favored part of him. She looked up at him with a smile that was sweeter, more familiar, than one might have expected, and she pressed a kiss to him, just above his navel, as she stroked him up and down. "I love you," she murmured softly, nuzzling his skin as she gripped him more tightly, more roughly, the way he always liked.
"I know." It might have sounded callous but for the earnest smile he wore, small and satisfied and completely, utterly unguarded. He stretched out a hand to her, rough fingertips stroking her temple, her cheek; his fingers coiled in her hair, winding one loose lock around his skin. His hips rose to her, pushing him into the tight clasp of her hand. His love and adoration were written in his every motion, his body granting her a sort of submission, a soul-deep obedience, no other would ever receive. His lips parted on a sigh, his lower lip dampened by a hungry flick of his tongue. He ached to taste her again, to feel her body wrapped around his own, to take and be taken with all the force their lust could rouse. His free hand curved at her shoulder, sliding down her soft flesh, wrapping close around her arm. Tight as his grip was, the pad of his thumb was gentle where it brushed over her, a soft caress in spite of his sudden urge to buck his hips, to pull her roughly onto him.
She moved where he bid, up the length of his body, kissing his skin as she went. Her body skimmed his as she slid up to him, as he lips pressed to his neck, his jaw, his mouth. She slipped one leg over him, her body held just above his, ever coy, ever the tease. She kissed him again then, sliding her tongue into his mouth, pressing her parted lips to his as she moaned softly, rocking her hips so her slickness barely traced his body. The kiss was thorough and deep and assertive; and when she pulled back, it was only to kiss his lower lip, only to whisper, as her hands rested on his shoulders, as her breasts were pressed to his chest, her stomach to his, their heated skin touching everywhere it felt like: "Then show me." She kissed him again. "Show me I'm yours."
His hand tightened in her hair, then, his teeth sinking shallowly into the swell of her lip. His hand pushed over her hip, short nails digging crescents into the small of her back as he held her over him. His own hips snapped beneath her, driving him sharply into her still, taut shape. With a shudder, she cried out, tightening on him. She felt every bit as good as he recalled, tight and slick and soft around him, every aspect of her made to draw him in. With one last tug to the thick tendrils of her hair, his hand moved, curving to fit at the nape of her neck. As he thrust into her his lips found hers once more, his harsh groan muted by her open mouth. He held her tight against him, feeling the shifting of her hips as he moved within her, the brush of her nipples at his chest as they moved, the steady thrum of her pulse beneath his hand at her throat.
So quickly, so easily, he made her lose all her words. There was only sensation in moments like these; her body open to him, the full, almost painfully pleasurable feeling of him inside her, her skin pressed to his, the slide of her body over him. Her hand slid down to his nipple, pinching sharply before she pressed her nails into his chest, kissing him deeply, her own moan mingling with his as her other hand moved to his throat. Her hips bucked on him, meeting each of his thrusts with an eager snap of her own, her knees tight on either side of him as her body undulated on his, thighs and hips and stomach tense, then relaxed, rolling as her lips moved to his jaw, his throat. She hummed against his throat. "I love... having you... inside me... my love," she said in a whisper.
He arched into her hand, her lips, the press of her small, sharp nails. He sighed at the sound of her voice, at each breathless little word, his grasping fingers softening at the smooth lines of her skin. The pads of his thumbs brushed over her, tracing the curve of her hip, a taut tendon at the column of her throat. Loath as he was to do it he released her then, his hand moving from her slender neck; he longed to see her, to watch the motions of her body as she rode him. His hands settled at her hips, pulling her hard onto him as he bucked up to her. His thumbs slipped over the faint lines marking each hipbone, guiding her up, a silent plea to see ever more of her. "So beautiful," he breathed, his flattened palm sliding up her ribs, then fitting to the soft swell of her breast. He clasped her tighter as he drove into her again, watching her hungrily as his every motion jarred her roughly over him.
It was here that she was in her glory; it was in this space, with him, that she could most be all that she was, not just a reflection of what someone else made her. Aphrodite did not know what she was in her purest form, because there was no such thing as love without another. Even love of self was still colored by perception. But with him, with her Enyalios, some deeper part of her nature called, and he answered. They were two of a kind, though few might expect it, and with him, rather than her nature being compromised, it shone brighter and moved deeper than with anyone else. And she arched her back, slid her hands to his chest, snapped her hips, to be joined with him and resplendent in her own power, in her own love for him, in sex, in lovemaking. But more than that, it was for him; to please him; to show him what was his, what would always be his. Lips swollen with his kisses, hair flowing down her back, eyes on his as she undulated on him with abandon. She gasped as he bucked harder into her, and one of her hands slid down her body, over her breast, her stomach, between her legs, stroking them where they were joined, pushing her closer to that lovely, beautiful full and empty space as she ground her hips harder onto his.
Ares groaned aloud at the touch of her hand, at the sight of her stretched out above him. At last he could take no more. His hands drew tight at the slope of her hips, rough fingers pressing bruises into smooth skin. He shifted against her, his body pushing deeper into hers as he rolled her beneath him. The scent of earth and sweat and sex enveloped them as they moved, so feral and real and perfectly them it sent a heavy shudder down his spine. There was nothing left to say, no words that could express what the clasping of his hands and the violent jolt of his hips did not. His mouth moved to her breast, his parted lips covering one pebbled nipple. His teeth pressed into her, marking her flesh with shallow, red-tinged lines. His teeth moved over her skin as he pounded into her, one hand gently cradling her upraised thigh, the light brush of his fingertips spelling out those things he could not give voice.
Sharply, she cried out as he drove into her, as he rolled her under him and shoved into her, setting his own heavy rhythm even as he held her thigh quite tenderly. She shuddered at the depth of him inside her, at the way he opened her; she spread her legs wider to him, arching her back to press herself closer to him, her breath ragged as her hips bucked up to meet his. She cried his name in exaltation, in some mournful rebellion. Every mark was a claim that could not be countered; every thrust a signal of their joining. It was so quickly, so easily, that his speed and his strength, his body over hers, inside hers, pushed her just over that brink, and she came, her hips shooting up to his, every part of her clenching around him, a cry, his name, ringing out in her garden. She couldn't quite see yet as he continued to move inside her, but she moved with him, her eyes closed, murmuring her love to him still.
He slowed his strokes as she came, content to feel her body draw tight and trembling around him, to watch the writhing of her slender shape as he brought her to that edge. He had missed this more than he could say; countless times through the course of their trials he had feared he would never feel this again. He had never dared to say as much to her, but he felt that soul-scorching, shameful anxiety even now. His body lowered closer to hers, pressing flush against her, as if he required some reassurance that she was truly there, that she was his, that they were now, in this moment, as they were always meant to be. He whispered her name against her damp flesh, the flat of his tongue dragging hard across her nipple. His hands moved against her, soft at her upraised leg, hard and grasping at the slope of her shoulder. "I love you," he breathed, the words spilling from his lips to her flesh seemingly of their own volition. His hands kept their strange, gentle tension as he moved again, his hips snapping hard to hers as the last waves of her orgasm shuddered through them both. "My Areia."
"My Enyalios," she replied, his name a soft cry on her lips as he shoved so exquisitely into her again. With him pressed so close to her, her arms wound around him, her fingers threading into his short hair, the resonance of her climax still reverberated through her, extended by his heavy thrusts. Even as it subsided, that tension began again, slow and easy. Her other hand slid over his back, his neck, her nails tracing, pressing across his skin. She wound her hips against his, finding his rhythm, meeting his force without hesitation, and with the best of her art. Their bodies were instruments, and she could play; her fingers slid between them, then, finding the small spaces between them, scratching slow and deep down his chest, finding that space between them again even as their bodies pressed together; they slid over the place where they were joined, became slick with them; back up went her hand, and she pressed her fingers to his lips, saying, "My greatest love..."
The hissing breath he had drawn at the press of her nails ended then, stopped short by that intimate touch. His tongue slipped out over her slim, wet fingers, tasting them both on her skin. As he drew her finger into his mouth he buried himself in her, his hips rolling with bruising force between her legs. His teeth closed over her, nipping at her skin, a self-satisfied smile quirking as he licked away the last of their slickness. At last he let her go, leaning down to kiss her mouth, his tongue tracing her full, parted lips. He pressed closer as he felt that familiar tension coiling low in his stomach, his every vicious thrust and affectionate touch pushing him further still. He groaned against her mouth, pushing harder into her, his fingertips softly stroking that same rhythm at her thigh. She touched him too well, encircled him too perfectly, called to him too deeply, for him to hold back. With one last deep, hard push into her he came, shuddering in her arms, his harsh cry breaking on her lips.
Sharp little moans escaped her with every shove of him inside her. She kissed him deeply, thoroughly, sweetly, hungrily, as he pounded into her, her arms sliding around him, going tight as she dug her nails into his back. Her hips snapped up to his, matching his rhythm until finally he came, triggering her own climax, her body tightening around him as she cried out his name. The time until she came back to herself was beautiful and perfect - knowing nothing but her love for him and the oblivious bliss of the pleasure he gave her. She kissed him again as her orgasm subsided, murmuring love and pleasure and all the sweet, soft things, nearly wordless in their quiet, as she kissed his throat, his jaw. "Always yours, my Enyalios," she whispered. "Only yours."
He remained inside her still, a ragged groan his only answer to her quiet words. His faint nod caused her lips to brush soft against his skin; he reveled in the feel, every inch of his sweat-slick flesh more sharply attuned to her touch in the wake of his orgasm. He shifted above her, bringing his weight to rest on his forearms where they rested on either side of her tousled head. His hands slipped beneath her, fingers laced at the nape of her neck, the pads of his thumbs tracing the smooth column of her throat. So many centuries they had known one another, so many obstacles they had faced down and forged through, and still it surprised him how thoroughly she could sate him, how she took what he was and calmed that turmoil into something just as fierce, but redirected. He could not speak his gratitude, but he knew she would understand.
"Mine," he said, smiling as he nuzzled at one high cheekbone, his short beard scratching at her skin. "And I am yours, my Areia."