Heavy Like Water (a suggestive short)

After a summer of hellacious schooling and a near-death experience that left me more than a little shaken, I have finally found some time to regain my sanity and squeeze in some writing! (I'd like to thank A for that. Thank you!)

Here is a little short for Will as a reward for his donation. Thank you so much for your kind contribution! Hopefully Baal lives up to your expectations. :)

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For how long had Uriel been living in the darkness? How long had he been so unbearably hot? How long since the song that had once filled his ears had been turned to crawling whispers and curses that crept along his spine to shred his thoughts to tatters?

An instant. A breath. The falling of a grain of sand from the webbing between Puriel’s eternal fingers. Longer. So much longer still. But even the passage of a mortal second was too long.

Uriel’s toes slid through the fine grains of sand at his feet. The edge of a shell scraped at the side of his foot as he filled his lungs with the salty sea air. He could hear the waves rolling in, and knew that he had only to extend his feet to full reach to touch upon the cool, moist sand at the very edge of the water’s reach. In his mind, he could picture the waves perfectly. Crystal turquoise water and a light white foam frothing up at the scalloped edges, delicate as lace and a hundred thousand times as transient. 

It was growing dark to the seeing world. The air was cooling, and Uriel could just make out the buzzing of cicadas in the distance. How many days? Months? Years? Oh how he missed the sunrise.

Even without the sudden wash of warmth across his left shoulder and the defeated hunch of his spine, Uriel would have known that he had arrived. He would have known in it the same way a mother knows that her unborn baby has died while she slept, in the way that a deer knows the hunter is watching. Because the hunter is always watching.

“Still sitting here sulking, Uriel?” Baal rumbled at him.

Uriel could picture Baal perfectly as well. The straggling red cascade of hair on the right side of his head, the pierced smirk that would accompany the tone the man had just used. Uriel could even imagine the light from the sunset glinting on the wealth of trinkets about the man’s neck. He knew those things as intimately as he knew the smooth heat of Baal’s skin beneath the pads of his fingers, the smokey-spice taste of the inside of his mouth. The way he growled when bitten too hard. Or laughed.

“You are.” Baal’s fingers speared into the unruly mess of Uriel’s hair. “And every day your power diminishes. Soon it will have dwindled to nearly nothing. Soon you will be little more than a husk. Shall I nail you to a cross and stick you up for the crows? Perhaps—“ 

“Enough, Ba’alel!”

“Is it? Then come back with me. None would dare touch you while you are under my protection. Come and regain your strength. Return to your former glory. To something—“ 

A lash of bitter, indignant words rode over Baal’s and terminated them prematurely. “There is no returning! I. Will. Not. Go. There.”

Baal’s fingers, which had settled restfully, very nearly tenderly, against Uriel’s scalp, began to stir. They shifted slowly at first in some semblance of petting. They turned, tangling thick black strands between them. Then they balled to a tight fist and, gripping hard, hauled Uriel upward.

Uriel yipped, his long body unfolding as he pushed up to stand. His head craned after Baal’s hand, like a fish at the end of a line, and Uriel’s own hand went swinging to settle firmly against the man’s chest.

Smooth skin that was entirely too hot to the touch met Uriel’s palm. Two fingers landed across the draping of chain and cord. The edge of an open blazer rubbed at the outside of his thumb. With that, Uriel knew that Baal was wearing his long, loose black pants. That his feet were bare. That his belt was studded with silver pyramids in orderly rows, an offense to the Armani belt loops that held it in place. 

Another twist of fingers called Uriel’s attention. He realized that he’d pressed himself close, hungry for the light and power pent within Baal’s manifestation just as a moth is hungry for a candle’s flame. Uriel grimaced and pushed at Baal’s chin. It did not move.

“Stop,” Uriel demanded.

“Stop me,” Baal growled in return. His grip twisted again. “Or do you lack the strength even for that?”

“I have no wish to fight you.”

“You have no desire for anything more than self-pity, Uriel.”

First there was pressure. Thin skin compressed over a small band of muscle, which was in turn worked against unyielding bone. The pressure turned to pain, a flare of it that left the back of Uriel’s neck hot as Baal bit Uriel’s jaw harder. Harder. Uriel’s cock swelled against the black jeans that were tight enough to make even the embers of arousal uncomfortable. He shoved at Baal, hissing wordlessly through his teeth.

“I do not consent to this,” Uriel protested.

A hand pressed rudely between Uriel’s legs. Long fingers cupped, and a broad palm found the bulge in his jeans. Baal grasped, squeezing, his palm rocking and sliding. Uriel chuffed as his pulse sank and sped. 

Baal’s hands fell away. One from between Uriel’s legs, the other from his hair.

“Not yet,” Baal rumbled.

Uriel could feel the heat of the man there still, though silence took pause between them.

“But you will,” came the low promise.

The heat of Baal’s presence winked out. Uriel shivered. The world felt darker and colder than ever. Hissing whispers of curses and distant cries of despair teased his ears. He sat, twisting to face the ocean once again as he did so, and pretended that it was just the quiet, serene garble of the sea to the shore.