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the world is not a fixed thing

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Caleb’s hands on him are large and hot and rough. Untouched for so long, Essek revels in it, almost overwhelmed. His hands grasp and tug and pull in turn, and he feels inadequate, fumbling over ties and buttons, fastenings worked from an unfamiliar angle.

Caleb’s tongue is in his mouth; Essek thinks he may catch flame.

Stubble prickles his skin. He shivers, and Caleb makes a noise against him, a sound into his mouth that Essek swallows and reflects back. An incisor catches Caleb’s bottom lip, and he pulls away with a soft hiss.

His tongue looks plush as he presses at the pain. Essek cannot pull his eyes away. He wants very much to feel that tongue against his own mouth again already, and then other places. Every place. He shivers again, leaning forward to sooth Caleb’s lip with his own.

Caleb groans when the hem of his shirt pulls free, and Essek finds unfettered access to the soft skin of his sides, the coarse hair low on his stomach.

“Essek,” Caleb hisses softly against his mouth. “Essek.”

It is not easy to step back. Harder still to undo the complicated inner fastenings of his mantle with Caleb looking at him like that and his own heart thundering hard enough to shake his fingers. Easy, though, to meet Caleb’s eyes and tell him, clearly, to strip.

“You are distracting,” he says.

“That is part of the fun, ja?”

Essek pauses to eye him, the moment drawn out like molasses when his eyes catch Caleb shirtless. He’s seen him like this before–seen much more of him–but the context left no room for desire. That was for later, if ever; for now, here in Caleb’s tower with the end of the world averted. They have suffered and sacrificed, and later, perhaps, Essek will revel in playful fumblings and those sweetly discovered spots that make the other shift and shiver.

He is presuming, perhaps. He doesn’t think so.

“Later,” he says as Caleb watches him bare his chest.

Caleb meets his eyes, repeats, “Later.”

And then he goes to his knees in front of Essek, and Essek’s eyes go large. His heart races. They are on a precipice or they have already fallen and Essek watches with held breath as Caleb reaches for the buttons of Essek’s trousers. He brushes skin, and Essek thinks of all the things he’s seen those hands do. They have literally played with fire, those hands. They could have destroyed the world; they saved it instead.

“May I?”

Bypassing Caleb’s fingers, Essek undoes the first button himself. “You may.”

It is gratifying the way Caleb’s eyes go dark.

His fingers work fast. Buttons are undone, and then Caleb’s hands are on his hips, fingers pressing into skin, slipping below the waistband of his trousers. Encouraging them down with his smallclothes to reveal his cock already hard, dark and shining at the head.

Under his breath, Caleb swears in Zemnian. Essek wants badly to reach out and touch his hair. In the candlelight, it glows like fire.

“You are magnificent,” Caleb says, and Essek laughs. He can’t help himself. Can’t help touching Caleb any longer, either. He reaches out, brushes hair back from Caleb’s temple. Caleb leans into it.

“We are both, I think, something special.”

Caleb’s eyes are heavy-lidded. He does not answer. Or perhaps this is his answer: to take Essek in careful fingers; to lean in, breath held, and press his mouth to the length of him, one kiss and then another. Essek’s hand finds Caleb’s shoulder, and it is a moment before he realizes he is squeezing like a cat, kneading at the shift of muscle and curve of bone.

He wants to touch Caleb. He does not know what to do with his hands.

Caleb does. Caleb’s hands are capable. They are wide and solid, hot around his cock and against his hip. Nothing in comparison to Caleb’s mouth. The first touch of tongue, the first breach of his cock past Caleb’s lips, and Essek knows without a doubt he will not last. He has wanted so much for so long, feared all of it lost. Then everything lost.

In the end, it led here. To a multidimensional tower created by the wizard currently on his knees. Currently sucking him off. Essek’s not sure he’ll ever understand how he managed this particular feat.

Caleb sucks at him, taking him deep to let him out slow. Essek’s hand wanders from his shoulder to his neck, his jaw. He touches the corner of Caleb’s mouth, appreciates how pale and pink and ginger he is against Essek’s own skin. His eyes when they blink open are very blue. Essek’s breath catches.


He pulls off, leaving Essek’s cock wet and shining. His lips look used, and Essek imagines pushing between them with his thumb, the catch of Caleb’s teeth against a knuckle. Then he imagines pushing between them again with his cock, of holding Caleb still, of Caleb asking

“Be here with me now,” Caleb says, voice thick.

“Always,” he says, and gives himself away.

Caleb’s eyes widen. His face goes hungry. This time when he swallows Essek down, he moves Essek’s hand to his hair himself. Holds him there for a moment until Essek curls his fingers. Caleb hums and lets go, head bobbing.

As with everything else between them, it is easy to pick up his rhythm, easy to improve upon it. Essek lets himself take what he wants; Caleb, after all, clearly wants to give. He tugs at Caleb’s hair, holds him steady, pulls his hips back before pushing them forward. He watches himself disappear between Caleb’s swollen lips beneath the pleased shutter of his eyelashes, and all it takes is another one, two, three pushes forward with his hips before he’s coming in Caleb’s welcoming mouth.

Caleb’s eyelashes are wet when he pulls away, his cheeks red. He licks at his lips, and Essek cannot wait to kiss him, to taste himself transmuted on Caleb’s tongue.

He falls to his knees.