Sunday, August 10, 2014



*Story contains fantasy elements, M/M relations, and sexual references.*

It was always a bit of a stretch to reach the light and Derek kicked hard, reaching for the shimmering surface. His fingers felt the heat before anything else, drawing the rest of him through, and he gasped a deep breath while water cascaded down his skin. Sunlight fell over his body, drenching him in heat and brilliance. He kept his eyes closed while he inhaled: desert roses, juniper, and ripening dates. Hummingbirds and bees offered harmonious background to the shuffle of shifting grass and palms, the dripping water adding to the melody like the cautious plinks of fingertips on piano keys. The heat was powerful, yet sweet and inviting to bones that had spent many hours encased in clothing that had done little to keep out the seep of winter chill. And for a long moment Derek did nothing more than stand, waist deep in bath-warm water, skin bared to burning sun, letting auditory and sensory pleasure revive him.

"I thought, for some time, that you were perhaps not going to arrive."

The voice was deep, pleasant, and Derek smiled in spite of the fact he'd been expecting it. He lifted his gaze and locked it on the speaker; bronze skin: eyes of the lightest blue Derek had ever seen, hair long and dark, tucked behind both ears, and Derek found himself shivering despite the heat. "Kiemen," he smiled. "Why do you always doubt that?"

Kiemen reached for Derek's hand and pulled him from the water as if Derek had no more weight than one of the basking geckos that watched them from the shore. "Because waiting for you, Derek, is like waiting for snow in the desert. It happens, but its rarity is such that one never counts on it even while one hopes for it."

Derek huffed, more so at the rush of air that left his chest from being pulled against Kiemen than in display of his annoyance. "My visits are neither rare nor spectacular, you liar."

"Ah, but Derek," Kiemen rested his cheek against Derek's and Derek breathed in the scent of cinnamon and ginger, "that is how it feels – a decade of waiting between the hours that separate us. And your arrival is more spectacular every time it happens."

"Flirt," Derek teased, folding his body into and around every inch of Kiemen's physique that would accept him; face into neck and arms around shoulders. Legs were interlocked with legs and his groin pressed into Kiemen's hip with a roll. "I forgive you for it though."

Kiemen's low chuckle didn't just dance over Derek's hair, it raced through his core. As it always did. As Derek had no doubt it always would. Kiemen was everything Derek wanted, everything Derek could imagine anyone wanting, really. It was no wonder they spent so many hours with their bodies twisted together. Or that Kiemen was the first thing his mind wanted to wander to when he woke, and the last thing he wanted to be with before he slept. Or that Kiemen peppered his thoughts all day – if he wrapped his hands around something hard, be it steel pipe or wooden bat, it was Kiemen that Derek's mind drifted to. He added cinnamon to his coffee just so he could smell that smell; kept silk sheets on his bed because they reminded him of moving against Kiemen's sweat-slicked body; he'd even bought one of those ridiculous little desk-fountains just so he could hear the sound of trickling water. So Derek didn't argue the way Kiemen felt when they were apart. He couldn't. Not without knowing that he'd be a hypocritical liar.

"Touch me," Kiemen told him, "lest I fall to my knees from the need of you."

Kiemen's words hit Derek so hard they left him speechless. He gripped Kiemen's shoulders tight enough to make his own fingertips smart from pressure. "My pleasure," Derek whispered.

It was no chore to worship Kiemen's body; every ridge and every hollow from neck to navel was tasted with tongue tip, every muscle traced by Derek's fingers. Derek didn't take the time to confirm if the "I love yous" were mere thought or actual speech mumbled by him against Kiemen's skin. It didn't matter anyway. Kiemen knew.

The low sigh Kiemen gave him when Derek brushed his lips over Kiemen's growing body was enough to make Derek's breath stutter. He lifted one hand to Kiemen's sac, cupped it with palm while running fingertips through the curls that decorated the surface, and brought his other to cock to work it to full mast. Lush moss cushioned Derek's knees. Hot breezes made quick work of the water that rolled down his skin. But as utopian as the surroundings were, nothing compared to the paradise of Kiemen's body. Touching Kiemen was akin to popping acetaminophen. But tasting him was like dropping a hit of ecstasy. Seeing Kiemen's cock thick and waiting made his tonsils itch, his mouth water; it made Derek harder than damn near anything he'd ever known.

Getting fucked by Kiemen however, had no suitable metaphor. Kiemen's body was almost too much to take and yet, somehow, managed to feel so damn good it made Derek heady every time. Maybe it was just the way Kiemen never stopped telling him how perfect he was. Maybe it was the size of Kiemen that managed to fill and titillate sensitive spots so efficiently. Perhaps it was how Kiemen handled his body: stroking, licking, kissing him in a never-ending shift of hands and lips that always culminated to an expertly-timed orgasm.

Regardless of reason, Derek groaned as he recalled the moments, losing the sound but not the sensation as he wrapped wetted lips over the head of Kiemen's cock and swallowed what he could.

Thigh muscles tightened, Kiemen hissed his approval, and that was enough encouragement for Derek. He forced his throat to take to capacity, to move his fist over what he couldn't, and gave up breath for gratification. Let the water lap seductive rhythms against the shore, let the birds tweet angelic lilts; at that moment the only sound in Derek's consciousness was praise by heated breath and deep rumbles of contentment.

Derek sucked Kiemen to the pinnacle of release, spit aiding both slide and swallow as it trickled from the corners of Derek's mouth, and it was only when Kiemen husked a laboured plea for mercy: "Not yet, beautiful. Gods please, not yet," that Derek finally released the anxious organ from his lips.

Kiemen dropped to his knees, took Derek's face in both hand and kissed him hard. "I want to play with you all day. All night. Too soon you're gone, too few hours you stay; don't rush our moments, please." He didn't wait for Derek to reply. With a simple tug and shift, he pulled Derek into his lap. Face to face, lips dragging against lips, Kiemen lined up a slickened cock with one hand before palming Derek's with the other. Kiemen's voice was a breath in Derek's ear, "At your discretion."

Derek didn't ask on the specifics of slippery flesh; neither where the liquid itself was obtained nor when the placement of it had been managed. He never did. There wasn't enough function in thought as it was to worry the mundane. Instead he concentrated on relaxing his body as he lowered himself over Kiemen's cock.

The quiet commendations began to follow immediately. Even as Derek's head fell back and his mouth parted to make way for silent gasps, Kiemen incited him with words and touch. "Take me, want me, love me—"

"What the fuck?!"

The words hissed through Derek's mind like water over hot coals. He looked quickly over his shoulder and choked on anger and frustration. He turned back to Kiemen and shook his head.

Kiemen's eyes flashed—silver from the blue—and he gripped Derek's hips with a sound too close to a whine for such a deep voice. "Don't go. Stay. Here is where you want to be. Here is where I want you to be. Put the rest out of your mind."

Sex was forgotten as Kiemen wrapped his arms around Derek's waist and tugged Derek against his chest. "Please."

But sensation was already fading. Heat transference from skin faltered – a radiator switched from on to off, red dying to black, pounding waves dispersing into nothingness as atmosphere forced dissipation...


Derek gasped and opened his eyes wide, tugging blankets off his head and gaping in bewilderment.

"Jesus Christ," Scott hissed. "Get the fuck out of bed! It's the middle of the afternoon, Derek!"

The fountain bubbled on the nightstand and the muted sounds of birds in the yard increased when Scott yanked on the blind and let it fly open with a series of clicks and clacks. Daylight flooded what had once been a dark bedroom. "All you ever do is fucking sleep anymore. Get up. Go outside. Do something for God's sake!"

"Sorry ... " Derek's tongue fumbled to find words while his brain reoriented to reality. "I wasn't feeling well—"

Scott snorted. "Yeah, okay. Right." He curled his nose in distaste. "And shower. You stink."

As Scott stalked out of the bedroom, Derek let his head fall back on the pillow. He closed his eyes and frowned.

Waking up sucked.


Kiemen watched, resigned and silent, as the desert began to reclaim the edges of the oasis. Blooms began to curl as sand and heat encroached. Tiny lizards fell to their sides, legs stiff and tongues hanging. Birds dropped to the ground from mid-flight. As the sun moved forward and dried the lush space into barren, Kiemen closed his eyes. Not to grieve, just to wait.

Next time it would work, he told himself. Next time he would convince Derek to stay; to keep his world alive.

There was always next time.

The End

Copyright © 2012 AF Henley

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