Dream of Gods Who Love You

        The world was a hazy blur. Each color overlapped, but never quite made anything new. Well, if they had, it was never anything you could comprehend— never anything familiar to you. You rushed through it all, this familiarly unfamiliar realm. Every sensation was as vague as the next. You had no idea what you were feeling. You don’t know what you’re seeing, what you’re hearing. You had no idea who you were, but it didn’t— no. It couldn’t matter.

        You were running with a purpose that negated everything else. To something, away from something. You were running your fastest and walking your slowest— a goal in mind. Out of breath, but full of energy— you wished you knew where you were headed (but that didn’t matter). You existed, but at the same time, you were barely even real.

        You’re as real as the eyes that watch you. The eyes that know your soul— your purpose, your meaning. The eyes, they seemed to be everywhere (but they weren’t). Those eyes were yours (you never saw through them). They followed you, observed you as though that was its only purpose— they were yours.

        Everything here was yours. The tall structures (skyscrapers) were yours. The smooth paths (roads) were yours. The place, this city (home) was yours. Everything here was yours.

        Except those figures, the ones that now stand in front of you (you, motionless), are not yours. They aren’t from home. They are outsiders (they don’t belong). But their eyes belong to you and some part from deep within you selfishly decides that’s proof that you own both of them, too (you don’t).

        You hold your breath (but you don’t breathe) as their hands reach out to touch you (but you can’t feel). With dazed eyes you try to look at them. While fingers graze over your cheek, you notice that suddenly, that shapes only vaguely make up the world— a concept. It barely exists, not with these two in front of you. These cold, shadowy figures. Hands grip your hair tenderly and it makes you realize that they aren’t like you— they aren’t human. Wearing masks, lacking humanity.

        They pulled you forward, and you allowed yourself to fall into their arms. You let them pet your head and you let them hold you close. One coos at you and the other leans close to your ears— whispers into it. While words are lost on you, but you don’t care. Their voices are deep and masculine, smooth and rumbly, confident and seductive— it lulls you into security.

        You flush with arousal and try to melt into them. Their hands explore your body, fingers wispy, a ghost of a touch upon your skin. One of them moves behind you and presses against you, the one who stayed in front of you mimicking them. Their presences are firm, clear, but you are dazed, lost. The one behind you softly kisses the back of your neck— and you would’ve wonder how (his mask, both of their masks, have no mouth), but your mind blanks.— The one in front of you asks a question.

        Somehow, deep inside of you (even if you can’t understand words), you know exactly what he asks (even if words don’t exist here). Aware of how you want to answer, you nod. They radiate appraisal as you close your eyes, and deep inside of you, you know that’s proof that they own you (they do).

        You take a breath (but you don't breathe) as hands still touch you (but you don’t feel). Lips meet yours and hands massage your back. It’s all so very slow and sensual. The way that hands held your hips in place, the way that a different pair pulled you closer to the— to the…

        You jolt, your eyes opening with a panic, and you look behind you. The world, all in a rush of sensation, becomes clear with a lucid clarity that you’ve never experienced before. It helps you realize that you’re dreaming, that none of this is real— that none of it should be happening. The outsiders, you can feel (you can see) their disappointment.

They don’t belong here.

        They freeze as if they hear your thoughts (maybe they do), and their touch is suddenly blurry. Their expressionless masks— faces that aren’t there, a space that is blank— and in true dream fashion, that somehow makes sense. They pull away and you know they intend to disappear (to leave you), but you don’t want to let them.

They don’t belong here; you want them here.

So you close your eyes and you hope they understand. You hope they know that you’re trying to go back to the daze. You don’t move, but you feel like you’re falling, the sensation startling and it isn’t until you allow it to happen that you’ve been caught. The outsiders hold you like you’re worth more than before (one of them tuts at you, scolding you for your way of thinking). They press against you lovingly, their desire to hold you and to never let you go very clear.

They talk to you, words a praise, affection poured into each that escapes them (each sound that reaches your soul). You try to talk back, mouth ready to form words— you don’t know what you’d say (meanings without words); a thanks—, but one of them shushes you with a kiss. The other one worships you with every word he says. You’re dizzy with the lust you know he speaks of.

Hands lift you up, holding you firm against the outsider in front of you. A different pair of hands possessively pull you towards the outsider behind you. The feeling of being wanted makes you sight (the sound almost a breathy moan) and you melt. Your head tilts back and rests against the shoulder there. Your legs wrap around the waist in front of you. Quietly, (and the sound is new to your ears) you whimper, drunk on desire.

You try to ask them for more (you feel as though you could only ever want more), but teeth (sharp, almost like they belong to a predator) latch onto your neck (gently, almost like the outsiders have adored you forever). Sounds never leave your mouth, stuck inside you and replaced by a shaky exhale. That’s okay, you don’t need to make a sound.

The outsiders know exactly what you want, even if you can’t voice your desires. Hips roll against yours (sweet and far from a grind). Lips ghost over your neck— and they murmur against you, each word an encouragement worth more than the one that came before it.

It all makes you feel heavy. You feel so so heavy that it takes a unique strength from within you to light your hands up, to rest them atop the outsiders’ heads. You feel their hair, but their hair feels like a chilly smoke. You intend to pet them, to pour affection into action, but instead you grip hard.—

Hands grip into your thighs like claws (marks you wish could be real). Two different mouths bite you (if only you could bleed). Their bodies push against yours (you feel so overwhelmingly loved).—

They moan against you, teeth letting go so that they could kiss you. Their hands behind to roam over you with more suggestive passion. The outsiders lean into you, a sign that they’re losing themselves to lust (it makes them as human; it makes you just like them).

They’re talking again, their words feverish and resonating through your entire being. You realize that, as you all lean over the edge, they’re trying to push you over it. They worship (because what else is this?) you like it’s their only purpose. They love you like you are meant to be loved. And you realize that maybe you are meant to be loved— and you feel more loved than you ever have been.

With happy tears in your eyes, the bliss tips you over with a sob.

The sensation leaves you feeling shaky, overwhelmed, and so dazed, but that doesn’t stop you from noticing that the outsiders are leaving. You hear them praise you. You can feel them give you a goodbye kiss. But as you slowly wake up, the dream finally letting you go, you realize that you’ll never see them again.

You’d cry, but somehow, you’re not sad.