[ Anakin stands with his arms crossed, still behind the divan, like it's somehow an insurmountable barrier between him and the rest of the room. He watches as everybody else - Juila and Erene, Sarica - clean up the remains of the party, the gathering room beginning to look more like itself with every stupid food tray or bit of trash that disappears. He should probably actually help out, rather than stand here like he's trying to become one with the decor.
Regardless, he just doesn't. ]
It's not the party.
[ He steps around the divan and comes to a stop in front of instead. Arms crossed, stance rigid, back to the beginning. His next words are sharp, his chin raised. ]
[ It's not an apology. Sarica keeps wiping at the table, someone having spilled seasoned wine all over the corner, the thyme and the sugar-mix sticking, the cloth in his hand turning increasingly dark from grime, dark red splotched against white. Blood-like. Ulos knows things are changing, his grip on the power changing with it and the only way to keep Sarica centered in his usual spot is to do as they usually do, the same methods, the same indulgences. Frowning, Sarica gives up, straightening up fully and looking over at Anakin who's left the divan behind, because he doesn't need it for protection. He has strong hands, extensions of hands, he has Sarica, too. Sarica who should've been there to kick Ulos in the balls, hard enough that they went right back up his scrotum. Where they belong, no doubt.
He thinks about the peaduck that Toril had showed him, the feathers smeared in its own intestines, taking up double the space the birds usually do. Desperation's a very strong force to reckon with, isn't it? It ends wars. Starts them. It kills. It births.
Exhaling slowly, Sarica drops the cloth into a bucket of water, smudgy and gross at this point. Everything carries the stench of too many people, too much intrigue, games no one ever wins, because there's always a second round, a third, a fourth.
He dries off his palms in his tunic, caring little for the expensive, frail fabric with the red-brimmed edgings. All he cares for is Anakin. It shouldn't have ended this way, tonight. ]
That Ulos would try his luck is something I should have foreseen. Making you specifically off-limits has only spurred him on. It's my mistake.
[ Meeting the other man's eyes, it's clearly not an apology, Anakin doesn't need those, he needs someone to take responsibility, steering, sending people home, reining in the aftermath, that kind of thing. Well, Sarica will take it in full. ]
[ He remembers meeting Sarica for the very first time and how immediately afterwards, Sarica hid away his slaves and proceeded to fix up everything in the house himself throughout the entirety of Anakin's visit, at least as far as he knew. It's interesting in a way, watching him do so now with no hidden agendas or schemes - he's just wiping off the table because it needs to be cleaned, because he doesn't want to own people any longer, because Anakin would hate it. Sometimes, he wonders if Sarica misses having people serving him, doing stuff for him with no incentive except to survive within an uneven balance of power.
But then, in complete contrast to that notion, Sarica tells him how he should have foreseen it, how this was his mistake because he knows Ulos very well and he thinks Anakin getting half-way molested in the gardens for all of five seconds is the problem at hand. It is, to him. He never seems to factor himself in much, Sarica. His own power, whatever that means to him.
Sarica, whom he loves.
Exhaling deeply, Anakin's shoulders lower. He pushes himself into gear, crossing the distance between them and stepping right up to Sarica. His tunic looks a little worse for wear now, not at all like that of a man who's just hosted a party for the Capital elite. There's something about his cleaning of the room, the set of his shoulders, that makes him seem tired. His edges, worn.
Chest tightening, Anakin slips both hands around his waist and pulls him up against him, front to front. He leans down and rests his forehead against his shoulder, his hair slipping into his face. Breathing him in, Anakin smells people, food, wine - but Sarica, first of all, his scent almost achingly familiar. ]
I'm not angry because of him. [ Pause. ] Not just because of him. I don't like the way they act with you - like they have a right to you, somehow.
[ As always with Anakin, things happen very quickly. He moves forward very quickly, slips his arms around Sarica's waist very quickly. When the other man pulls him up against him, Sarica doesn't breach for it, he lands his own hands some place on Anakin's waist above the other man's arms gripping him and beneath shoulder level. Midriff, lungs heaving beneath his palms. Smoothly, but slowly he slips his spread fingers to what's to be made out of chest muscles beneath tunic, fabric crumbling between his fingers. Ah. Strong, forceful Anakin. Anakin who no doubt wants to do to all of them, his friends, what he did to the peaduck. Anakin who is strong enough to decide not to. His Anakin. He reaches up with one hand and runs it through the other man's hair, curling in his hold, when Anakin bends his head and presses his forehad to his shoulder, breathing him in. He inclines his head to the side, resting the side of his own face on top of Anakin's head, then. ]
They have a right to a person named Sarica who has died and is gone. He lives no more, do you understand? I am not threatened by their claims, because the one they seek doesn't exist. Do you understand?
[ His hold in Anakin's hair tightens until he's actively pulling at the strands, hard. Like that, he more or less yanks Anakin's head up until they're face to face again, looking into each other's eyes. He stares into him, stares into his depths, the vast darkness he carries inside and knows Anakin sees the same in him, this thing he's never shown anyone else. If it takes no slaves and no influence and nothing but this? He'll still take it. Let it be his. ]
We're not who we were, Anakin Skywalker. We must shed the old skin to fit into the new.
[ Do you understand asks Sarica, his breath warm agains the side of Anakin's neck. His grip in Anakin's hair tightens to a pull until he actively yanks him downwards and it stings along his scalp, a small bit of sharpness shooting through the emotional chaos still swirling in his mind. In his heart, too, or maybe first of all. Anakin shuts his eyes and curls his metal arm harder around Sarica's waist, keeping him pulled up against him, almost like he's trying to force them together, to make them blend.
We're not who we were says Sarica, gazing at him with all that intensity of his, sharp-edged and comforting, simultaneously. He sounds much older than his years sometimes, that man, like he's not just twenty years Anakin's senior but more, beyond. Anakin thinks about the life he must have led, with his bastard father (he doesn't know why the man deserved to be killed but he's got no doubts at all that he did), with his friends who aren't friends, who've once been entitled to Sarica even if they aren't, now. With Timachus who couldn't be free in relation to him, possibly because Sarica didn't know how to let him go.
He thinks about long, lonely nights in the dark vastness of space, listening to the other man's voice over the comlink. About Obi-Wan, years prior, telling him that dreams pass while his mother got tortured to death in the Tusken camp.
It seems in certain ways, they benefit from opposite learnings, him and Sarica, they have opposing trajectories that somehow, wildly and incomprehensibly, manage to remain both parallel and crossed. Sarica, who's had to learn how to let go in order to have. Anakin, who's had to learn that this kind of attachment doesn't have to spell defeat and terror and chaos and to trust in it. He swallows, staring into Sarica's eyes and seeing his own blue reflected there, not as a contrast but as a natural extension of the other man's own darkness.
So he leans in the rest of the way and kisses him, pressing his tongue past his lips with just a hint of urgency.
[ There's no answer, but truly, isn't it all self-explanatory. Rather, Anakin acknowledges his little bit of life philosophy, an art he really doesn't engage with, by leaning in the rest of the way and kissing him, pushing himself past Sarica's lips, urgently, like he wants to put himself there, like he's returning himself to where he belongs. Considering who has taken advantage of his mouth tonight, perhaps it's understandable. All but clawing at the other man's scalp with his fingers, keeping his face close, closer as he angles his own chin for better access, Sarica pushes in against it, pushes his own tongue up along Anakin's, putting himself in Ulos' stead, deciding this is the last place their paths will cross, from here on out Ulos is on his own. While Sarica, evidently, is not, Anakin's metal arm crushing him against his front, they're standing so close that every heave of the other man's chest reverberates within his own lungs, like they're breathing through each other this way. It feels claustrophobic. Completely overwhelming. He loves it.
With his other arm he yanks at Anakin's shoulder, making him step all up against him, until they're aligned, head to toe. More, it says, never enough - rather than too much. Too much is a figment of the imagination, it simply doesn't exist, not in their world.
Not for men like them. Which is why this is the answer, why they can't do anything else in response.
He remembers the first time after Anakin's return, in Irestes' office at the Senate, he remembers sucking Anakin off, then having the favour returned. Along with his semen, returned. Anakin never doesn't give back, that's the magic. That's what makes him so extraordinary. He gives, gives, gives. Maybe it's about time he gets, gets, gets, yes.
Pushing his tongue up against Anakin's, meeting the intrusion with a suck, cheeks hollowing as he languidly drags his own tongue tip over the length of him, Sarica lets him feel him, the way his mouth works around him. His body feels oversaturated and held and Sarica wants to give, give, give now, be the one, to be the one for him. Dropping the hand not in Anakin's hair to his chest, feeling him out through his clothes, then further down, further - until he's cupping him lightly through his trousers, Sarica draws back and feels his own lips move, puffy and swollen, as he says: ]
Tell me what you want and I'll give it to you.
[ Their noses bump, their lips all but brushing. Anything, it means, ask me for anything, I can, I will, I want. ]
[ The kiss grows deeper and then, impossibly, deeper yet and Sarica's pressing back against him, the whole length of his body. All of him. Anakin simply lets himself drown a bit, feeling light-headed and fluffy on the inside. The anger is retreating into where ever it goes and stays, remains, because Anakin can never quite be free of it, not even here on Efith, not anywhere in the universe. Palpatine, of course, had understood that before anyone else, as a Sith would. Anakin thinks about Ulos, face-down in the pool. About the peaduck, torn to pieces amongst the shadows. His gut tightens with shame.
Leaning into the kiss almost desperately, pushing his tongue past Sarica's lips again and feeling him out, he relishes the way the other man's gripping his hair, the hold. He feels grounded against him, as if they're both being rooted in place, hopelessly and wonderfully entangled. Groaning against Sarica's lips, he shivers as the other man runs his free hand down his front, down, oh - his cock practically jumps into the other man's grip at the contact. Heat pools in his belly.
Then, Sarica pulls out of the kiss and Anakin whimpers except he's a General and a Jedi Knight and the Hero-Blah-Blah-Chosen-One and he certainly doesn't whimper so. Yeah. He breathes hard against Sarica's lips, shifting his hips and thrusting up against his palm a little because he can't help himself. Oh, the friction's good. It's - yes. His body's been starved for points of contact all night; and it's a relief, really, to have it be about sex, about sex with Sarica, rather than... well. Violence against peaducks. Ulos. Et cetera.
His voice, when he speaks, is a little raw: ]
I...
[ He looks down between them. Then, he runs one hand up along Sarica's back, between his shoulder blades and rests it there, fingers spread out. He's hot underneath and Anakin can feel the way he breathes. He anchors himself within that thought. ]
Tell me. [ Lead me. Because they're here now, on the right track, and Anakin can't bear the thought of stumbling off it again, of struggling back. ] Tell me what to do.
[ Whimpering, Anakin accepts the distance, but obviously hates it, loathes it, wants to dig back into his mouth, find his tongue, put himself there. Oh, Sarica wants that as well, but he needs to hear it, tell him what you want, Anakin Skywalker. Remind him of all the things he can definitely give you. At the same time, Anakin's hand runs up his back, splayed out and huge, fingers digging in for his heat and giving him his own in return. Sarica shifts from one foot to the other, his own cock filling at least a third of the way, it always goes quicker with this man. With this man, there's never any wait. Leaning back in the other man's hold, Sarica murmurs softly beneath his breath as Anakin goes, tell me, tell me what to do and the words alone make him hard half the way now. Like he said, quicker. Always. ]
Mm.
[ He lets his eyes run over his features, strong, pretty - though Sarica rarely thinks of them as such, not out of a lack of noticing, but because there's so much fight and darkness in Anakin that his face looks apart from something as base as prettiness. Had he been half himself, he'd have been beautiful. As he is, he's more perfect than that. Gaze settling on his lips, running along the lines of them, the curves, the soft plumb feel that he can still taste, Sarica smiles slowly and leans in close, until their noses are almost bumping, breaths mingling, Anakin's breathing a little desperate, Sarica's alight. With his hand, he curls his fingers around what he can make out of Anakin's shaft, irritably pushing his tunic out of the way with his forearm, giving himself more direct contact, only the fabric of the man's gifted trousers keeping them apart. That's good. A little bit of layering only adds to it. Teasing.
Lead me, Anakin Skywalker is begging him and that, indeed, Sarica will give him and he will give him nothing else - than the trust that comes with leadership, when it's right.
With his free hand, Sarica reaches up and catches Anakin's chin between thumb and index finger, angling his face sharply downwards, the line of his mouth looking enticing this way, exactly like this. On display for him. Only for him. He huffs out a sharp breath and leans up on his toes, licking a fat trail over the other man's mouth, chin to nose. Marking him. Scent, fluids, presence.
Then, he draws back, a little, just a little. ]
Open your mouth, wide.
[ The thumb on his other hand, handling Anakin's cock, rubs over the ridge of foreskin evident even here, layers of fabric stretched across the head. Sarica is breathing shallowly against his face. ]
[ Mm, says Sarica, his cock hardening against Anakin's thigh and he's like to touch him, maybe reach beneath the hem of his trousers and feel the weight of him against his palm. Regardless, he lets his own urge simmer beneath the surface, lets it be, while Sarica follows his wishes and sometimes, Force, sometimes he gets that crazy, impossible idea that the other man wouldn't deny him anything. That around him, with him, he really can have - and give - exactly as much as he needs.
The thought makes him want to kiss him again.
Except Sarica's fingering him through his trousers, feeling out the length of his shaft and the combined friction of his warm fingers and the slide of fabric makes him harden the rest of the way more or less instantly. Groaning, he follows the motion of Sarica's hand as he takes hold of his chin - he's got a thing about that, doesn't he, it's weirdly endearing. He looks down at the other man, eyes falling shut as Sarica gets on his toes (because he is quite short) and licks him, chin, lips, nose. Anakin inhales his scent greedily, letting the wetness cool against his skin as the other man draws back again. It feels like a print. A way to say, You're mine and I'm yours and it makes a difference, he thinks, to own each other, rather than to simply be owned.
It makes so much difference that he can't fully comprehend it.
Eyes opening slowly, he fixes his gaze, eyes dark, on Sarica's. Then, he opens his mouth wide and because of the way he's craning his face downwards, his mouth immediately waters, saliva gathering beneath his bottom lip. He gasps at the feel of Sarica's fingers against his foreskin, sensitive and pulled taut at this point. He can't help but thrust up against his hand a little, just - oh. Oh. ]
[ Without any kind of hesitation, Anakin obeys, eyes closed, mouth going O and Sarica stares at him completely enthralled, the way spit coats his bottom lip at this angle, a few drops slipping down his chin and the two fingers gripping the other man's chin becomes a full-palm hold, following his jawline and inclining him in against Sarica's own face, as he leans up and sucks his bottom lip in between his lips, licking it clean, leaving his own saliva instead. Mm, he tastes of that hard, hot darkness that's uniquely his, like no one can throw shade onto the world as Anakin can. Gutted peaducks and drowning Ulos.
Same way that no one can light it up.
They exist in between those extremes. Sarica tongues his lips, then plunges his mouth and catches Anakin's tongue, stroking it hard with his own, forcing himself into him, taking his space within him. Claiming. Because there's room inside Sarica, too, just for Anakin and there are times when Anakin fills him out, as he's entitled to.
After a moment, he draws away completely, straightens up and looks the other man's face over, taking the split-second chance he gets in between pulling out of him and Anakin shutting his mouth to him again, in that window of opportunity he releases his hold on the other man's cock and raises his hand to his mouth, forcing two fingers in between his lips, letting them slide far back over his tongue. Oh, Anakin can take it. Anakin has done good work on his gag reflex.
And Sarica wants him to feel it, besides. To his core. ]
Suck.
[ Out the corner of his eye, he quickly goes over the layout of the room. They're about five steps from the nearest table and that should do, shouldn't it? Though Anakin will have to bend over deeply, because he's tall and the tables of Efith are fitted to their men, not so tall. Beginning to fuck the other man's mouth with his fingers slowly, deep thrusts, far in, he releases his face and reaches down between them, unceremoniously undoing the knot on Anakin's trousers, feeling the fabric slide down around his hips, knees, ankles.
[ The kiss is long and hot when it happens and Anakin's tingling all over, his cock basically trying to arch into Sarica's grip but the other man isn't giving him enough to get a pace going. He's grateful, really. He'd like the other man to have it the way he wants it tonight, a mood that's rather rare for Anakin; under normal circumstances, it would make him feel pushed about and obviously, he's entirely allergic to that sensation but this, of course, is different.
This is Sarica, plunging himself into the darkness of him. Unafraid. Steady like nothing - no one - else. He pulls out of the kiss and half a second later, Anakin's being filled by his fingers instead, the other man keeping his chin still, in position for him. Big fingers, Sarica. Big and long and slim and beautiful. Anakin groans around them, at the way the other man rubs over his tongue and in, relaxing to give him as much room as he'd like. He can take it. He wants to.
As Sarica starts fucking his mouth, telling him to suck - and he does, naturally, immediately - he can feel himself letting the evening go and he thinks, oh, this is what it means when they say to release your negative emotions. He's not doing it himself, he's well aware, Sarica's doing it with him.
Anakin loves him.
He sucks on Sarica's fingertips hard at every instroke, his cock achingly hard at this point, devoid of friction except for the fabric of his trousers, straining around it. He thinks about reaching for it, maybe reaching for Sarica first, but tempers himself for just long enough that the urge ceases to matter. Sarica reaches down and opens his trousers and they fall down his hips, pooling around his feet. The shock of cool air against his cock and balls, his arse, makes him gasp around Sarica's fingers and he looks at the other man, saliva slipping down his fingers and wrist. Then, eyes narrowing in concentration, he reaches up with his metal hand, freeing it from around Sarica's waist and curls his fingers around his elbow, keeping his hand where it is, balancing it.
Carefully, he steps out of his trousers, managing not to break the flow of Sarica's fingers in his mouth. He gives him a triumphant look, eyebrows raised.
[ This is the first time, Sarica thinks. This is the first time Anakin has given himself over so completely, not just letting himself be pleasured, but letting himself be led. Sarica is so hot for it that the sensastion of his hand and wrist getting drenched in his spit makes him shiver a little, the air cooling the spit quickly, but he keeps fucking his mouth and as such, the flow never truly stops. It's like that with the two of them. It never truly stops.
Pushing in and drawing back, relishing the feel of his fingertips rubbing over soft palate, softer yet tongue, he watches through narrowed eyes as Anakin gasps at the exposure to the air, chilly tonight, even inside, but then counters the moment of surprise by reaching up with his metal hand and grabbing Sarica's elbow, keeping his fingers deeply buried and continuously burying into his mouth while he, carefully, steps out of his trousers - letting himself be fucked the entire way. He's so very good with his body, Anakin Skywalker. He knows how to use it and he takes it well.
Sarica imagines what he could do with his spit-slick fingers now, imagines bending Anakin over that low table and have him open up. They haven't done anything to his arse beyond tongue stimulation, Anakin hasn't asked for it and Sarica hasn't pressured, as is his way. But he thinks now is the time. He thinks he wants to be inside the other man, to the core of him, deeper than his mouth cavity, deeper than his fingers will go, too.
He wants to fuck him. Tell me what to do, Anakin begged.
With a grunt, he pulls out his fingers from Anakin's mouth, they're dripping with spit and he keeps his hand raised to preserve as much of it as possible. With his other hand, he roughly reaches up and grabs hold of the other man's hair by the neck, tightening his hold until it must hurt a little bit, they both know what it's like to want to hold on to someone convulsively, Anakin will understand. Sarica turns towards the table on his right and more or less drags Anakin with him by his hair, the taller man having to bend over a little bit to stay on level. ]
You're good. Now, follow.
[ Leading Anakin Skywalker over to the table at a leisurely pace, he pushes him in over the tabletop with something alike gentleness, waiting for the other man to keep himself raised on his hands and then, holds him there, bent over, using one foot to kick his legs apart enough to level out his balance. The hold in his hair becomes a caress, back of head, neck. ]
I'm going to fuck you, Anakin. Have you imagined it?
[ He feels like he's drooling pretty much all over the place as Sarica fucks into him, fingers running in deep along the width of his tongue. It's exhilarating, not caring. Just letting the other man's wrist get wetter and wetter, his own lips swollen. It comes to an end, though, as Sarica pulls his fingers from his mouth, that low grunt of his going straight to Anakin's aching cock. He breathes out shakily, gasping out loud when Sarica grabs his hair by the neck, his scalp burning a little as he pulls at the strands. Follow he says, as he drags Anakin down to his level and Anakin does, he does, and that's magical, it's...
Somewhere along the line, he's managed to release Sarica's wrist. Now, instead, he runs his palm up the length of his back for as long as he's able, before Sarica quite uncerimonously reaches their destination and pushes him in over the tabletop. Anakin moves a bit jerkily, trying to keep up, hands fumbling for purchase for a split-second before he manages to regain his balance.
As Sarica kicks his legs apart, he blinks. This position, it's - he swallows heavily, his muscles tense along his back and buttocks, his hands clenching into fists against the tabletop. I'm going to fuck you says Sarica, his grip on Anakin's hair no longer forceful but steady, calm; a fast and seamless transformation. Slowly, almost as if dazed, Anakin rests his face against the tabletop, his hair tumbling into his eyes. He looks up at the ceiling and shifts, his cock trapped between his stomach and the edge of the table.
No less hard for that, though.
Clearing his throat, he says, voice hoarse: ]
Sometimes, yeah.
[ He spreads his legs a little more. Puts himself on display because well, he already is. It's how Sarica wants him and that, in turn, is what Anakin asked of him. To want him and to tell him how. He blushes at his next words, which is perhaps somewhat absurd at this point: ]
[ No one who saw Anakin in that moment could hold it against him, the way Sarica releases his head and reaches down to give his own hard, aching cock a squeeze, just to focus, focus. As it is, he has the other man completely to himself, which is the magic of it all, that no one has come, no one has claimed him for the own, that he's stayed and that he wants to. Stay. Here. With him. The man's tunic is hanging halfway off to his side, baring his arse fully, his balls dark and tight between his thighs and Sarica just stands there, for a long while, saying nothing. Looking him over, indulging in the sight of him, how enthralling he is, how much Sarica wants inside of him, until Anakin is full of him, until they're equal part each other and themselves.
A long, shaking inhalation and he lets Anakin's words sink in, the way his voice sounds hoarse and he blushes, by the Mysteries, and no one has ever. No one has ever been there with their cocks first. He feels it even through his trousers, how his cock is weeping at all the implications. Anakin, touching himself. Anakin, waiting for Sarica to touch him, in turn. With efficient hands, he undoes his own trousers and lets them fall to the floor, stepping out of them with practiced ease. Only then does he step up behind him, until they're presses together, thighs against thighs, crotch to arse, and leans in over him, letting him feel the bulge and pressure of his cock. Letting him feel his presence, his nearness.
How inseparable they could be. ]
Were you as good to yourself as you are to me?
[ His voice is quiet, calm, pleasant. The question conversational, like they are eating dinner together, not this close - oh, this close to fucking. Sarica's cock slips up between Anakin's buttocks and he drags it all the way, from balls to tailbone. Gently, he runs both hands, palms down, finger spread, over the other man's back, from waist to shoulder blades. Just so he feels the weight of him. The warmth. He holds so much warmth for this man, that fire priest couldn't burn him like Anakin does.
He steps back a little, just enough to give himself room. Lifting one hand to his mouth, not quite incidentally - the one bearing all the residue of Anakin's spit, he sucks three fingers into his mouth and wets them thoroughly, noisily, before dropping it to Anakin's arse, letting him feel the wet trail of his fingers, waist to cleft. He pushes two fingers in between his buttocks, just to open him up a little. Sarica doesn't push, he doesn't penetrate, staying clear of his rim altogether. ]
[ He can feel Sarica looking him over from behind and the thought makes him blush even worse, heat spreading like wildfire across his face. He licks his lips and takes a careful breath, though it doesn't go as deep as he'd like - because then, just then, Sarica steps up behind him and presses his hard cock - naked, oh, he's dropped his trousers - against his arse. He stares straight ahead, his mind stumbling at the feel of it; big, Force, it feels big and he's sucked it many times, swallowed it a few too, he knows that it isn't scary but oh. Um.
Oh.
At the other man's question, he shivers - because he does try to be good to Sarica and he's just about vain enough that he'd assumed he wasn't bad but... regardless, it's always nice to get praise. Anakin, in particular, lives for it, so long as it comes from someone he loves. Sarica's hands against his back feel loving, for sure, warm and steady, a weight that simply keeps. Anakin runs his fingertips across the tabletop slowly, dragging over its surface as he tries to come up with an answer while his brain just stops on the sensation of Sarica's cock, pressing up against him. Before he can actually manage to dredge up something passable, however, Sarica pulls back a little and suddenly - oh. That's... the sound of him sucking his fingers.
Anakin's cock jerks pitifully beneath the table. ]
I...
[ He clears his throat again, maybe a little desperately. Just slightly. Sarica follows up by running his wet fingertips down to his arse, pressing in between his buttocks, parting them slightly. Lips parted wordlessly, Anakin tries to remember how to breathe because that, at least, is quite instrumental in the further act of forming a coherent sentence.
Come on. Kriff. ]
I've - I haven't gone very far. [ He's definitely flushing down his shoulders now, as well. ] Just one - two... I couldn't really...
[ Get them in, he wants to say but doesn't, it's too much. Instead, he rubs his forehead against his metal arm, some of his hair getting stuck in the gears. He pulls it out, forcibly, losing the strands in the process. ]
[ Oh, he's beautiful this way, all flustered and stumbling over his own words. Sarica looks over him with nothing but love, the heat in his crotch spreading wide to his chest and he pushes his fingers a bit futher in, feeling his very fingertips colliding with the other man's rim and carefully, he circles it with his fingers, teasing over the slightly clenching muscle, his breath bated and stuck in his throat at the feeling. He's going to put himself there. He's going to fill Anakin up until he'd complete, until they both are.
Sarica breathes in loud and harsh, starts wetting up his arsehole more forcibly, feeling it getting slicker and slicker from his own and Anakin's spit, combined. The thought makes his balls draw up and with his free hand he reaches down to temper himself, wait. Give time. ]
Patience. [ He speaks in a quiet, steady voice, spending another good minute on just rubbing at Anakin's rim, every second push, he dips the tip of his index finger in, not even to the first knuckle - just so the other man feels the pressure, the promise. ] You've been over-eager.
[ The thought makes absolutely everything burn, by the Mysteries. ]
I'll go so slow that, by the end, Anakin, you'll be begging me to just put it in, do you trust me with that?
[ It's not truly a question, he knows the answer. They've told each other everything, they've told each other I love you, there's nothing left they can give, except the verbalisation and Sarica wants to hear him say it, put those words in his mouth, filling himself with Sarica there, too. With his free hand, he runs his hand back up Anakin's back, the tunic riding up high like that, and once he reaches his shoulder blades, placing his palm right between them, he presses down, forcing him further down against the tabletop, putting his whole backside on display. Strong legs, firm buttocks, pliant little rim that starts giving more and more until it's absolutely no problem pushing his index finger inside him, a slow penetration. He feels like moulded stone and fire inside. Sarica can't breathe for it, stilling with his finger buried in him to the last knuckle, giving him time - because time is key - to get used to the feeling. The always strange and always wonderful sensation of someone else taking their fill of you.
If nothing else, Sarica is taking his fill with the utmost adoration. He would never want Anakin to have the experiences he himself has had, really, he'd kill the same men who've fucked him over the years if they as much as looked at Anakin wrong, he'd definitely have killed Ulos, but Anakin is better than that.
[ At the first touch of Sarica's fingers against his rim, he can feel himself clenching up completely by instinct and forces himself to breathe out, trying to rid himself of some of the tension crawling in his muscles. He remembers fucking Sarica by the river, remembers being less than careful with him, really, and right now he sort of regrets it. This is such a vulnerable feeling.
Patience, says Sarica and dips his finger in, just the tip, and the sudden sense if intrusion is equal parts strange and exciting, Anakin's hard cock jumping pathetically against his abdomen, what little it can manage with the table in the way. He groans, feeling the cool metal of his arm against his forehead, a contrast to the heat inside him. The stretch of Sarica's finger isn't impossible, far from it, and he gets used to it fairly quickly - regardless, he feels hot back there, the sensitive nerves shooting sparks of pleasure into his balls.
His cock feels already very much on the edge, here.
Before he can answer Sarica's question, the man proceeds to run his hand up his back and pushing him down and Anakin follows along, his back arching in response, his arse on even bigger display like that and Force, is it possible to get anymore exposed than this? He bites his lower lip, breathing in harshly, maybe a bit too quickly - and then, oh, oh, Sarica finally pushes deep, all the way into his body. Anakin startles against the table, twisting slightly, his flesh hand curling and un-curling next to his chin. ]
Ah!
[ He gasps. Whenever he shifts, Sarica's finger moves within him, moves with him and it makes his arsehole twinge a little. He's never gone that deep himself, never quite managed a good angle for it (mostly because he's been too embarrassed to search for one) and the feeling makes him light-headed, his cock actually spurting pre-cum at this point. He tries, voice faint: ]
Not so sure I'll last for that long, honestly. [ He shifts a little again, trying not to give himself friction in a way that'll set him off. ] But yeah, I trust you.
[ And he does. He'll trust him with begging, with war and politics and his own peace of mind. It's where they've ended up now, him and Sarica, and Anakin's always followed that particular path quite willingly, at least before it became a sign of weakness; loving people. Fully, without restraint. ]
[ I trust you, says Anakin who has had his trust used and abused so often that the words alone must leave him more exposed than even Sarica, pushing him down over the table, arse up, first things first. Sarica, in turn, shifts from one foot to the other and feels the power of it, he who has never grasped for real power, or perhaps never knew where to look, of being trusted by someone whom he could betray in an instant, but who has been betrayed so many times that Sarica couldn't bear being only the 100th in a row. He's more than that. And Anakin is more than that. They're rising above, here at this table, pushing against each other, holding each other down by sheer body mass. His breathing stumbles out of him and he gives Anakin a good long while to use himself to the feeling of fullness, of his finger in him, moving as he moves, always moving with him, this hand. Then, he pulls his finger out and pushes it in again, slowly, giving him the feeling of slide and friction and wetness. Mm. ]
Then, trust me to make you come twice.
[ It's gently teasing, it says don't worry about it, it doesn't matter to me and I could come just watching you give yourself over like this, I'd gladly come now, with you. Because, with Anakin's lack of an actual refractory period, he'll be ready again in due time for Sarica to take him, and he'll be endlessly more relaxed, too. It might even be the ideal way.
So, Sarica leans in over his back then, he lies across one half of his body, keeping him down and tethered and safe, letting Anakin feel his heat and his weight and his steadiness, fucking into him slowly with his finger, while - with his other hand - Sarica reaches beneath the table and firmly grabs him by the base of his cock, angling it away from his body a bit, giving him room. On the next in-stroke, he starts stroking his cock as well, simultaneously bending his finger and rubbing very lightly over that spot inside him, feeling for it, caressing it, drawing back, pushing in again, repeat.
His own cock is weeping precum against the upper part of Anakin's naked inner thigh and Sarica has to steel himself, not to thrust forward, give himself more, take it. He might not want to hold Anakin back, but himself? That's another matter. ]
[ Trust me to make you... He stares blindly ahead, seeing nothing, every cell in his body seemingly preoccupied with Sarica's finger working in and out of his arse and the heavy, dark quality to his voice. The promise in his words. He shudders as Sarica leans in over him, his weight comfortable and firm, his scent doubling in his nostrils at the sudden increase of proximity. Anakin inhales, desperately. Give me, he thinks and more. It feels as if the other man's digging into his very core, going as deep as he can with each thrust, every slide slow and careful and almost painfully intense.
His arsehole is getting used to the sensation too, he finds. It burned maybe a little bit to begin with but right now, there's just that wet glide of the other man's finger, filling him up and keeping him open. He shifts, trying to spread his legs a bit more when Sarica reaches for his cock with his other hand and just the fact that he's touching him makes his balls draw up. Mouth hanging open (and drooling unhindered on the tabletop, yes, thanks), Anakin forgets to breathe.
Then, Sarica... does something with his finger inside his arse, hits... something - something -- ]
Aaah!
[ He actually jumps slightly, his buttocks clenching violently along with his arsehole and then, breath stuck in his throat, he comes like it's a fucking explosion, all over Sarica's hand and the floor and whatever else, who cares, Kriff, what the hell was that and oh, his muscles - everything feels almost oversaturated with warmth. He's clenching around Sarica's finger and writhing on the table, curling in against the heat of Sarica's body against his back, trying to disappear within him, within whatever part of him he can reach.
The pleasure nearly blinds him.
He's breathing raggedly as the flood of it ebbs out. ]
[ Anakin comes. Like he was being ordered. Perhaps Sarica's finger inside of him was its own kind of command.
Watching him, the way he writhes and gasps and drools and pushes himself in against him, like he wants more and more and more and Sarica will give him all of it, everything, patience, Anakin Skywalker, and you will not be in want of anything anymore - yes, watching him like that, Sarica absentmindedly remembers that he can't actually pinpoint the first time he was made aware of this particular spot, that one day he simply knew and it made sex easier, more pleasurable and enjoyable, but most of all, easy. He would never want the same experience for Anakin, by the Mysteries, how disappointed he'd be if Anakin won't remember twenty years from now this exact fuck and how Sarica made him spend himself all over the floor and his fingers and his arsehole contracting around his intruding finger. So disappointed.
As it is, he just waits it out, Anakin's orgasm, the way it floods him and takes him in waves, and his whole body becomes both too huge and too small for its own skin and he's crawling into him, while his arsehole still clenches around his finger and Sarica truly, truly has to keep himself focused not to come at the mere sight. He lies across his back, feels how his breathing is torn from his lungs, ragged and hard, and he slowly releases Anakin's cock to reach up and rub his cum-covered fingers over the fabric between the other man's shoulder blades, just stroking him softly, letting him land again. ]
Relax. I'm going to pull out now, give you a moment to fall down, before we build you up again, understood?
[ With that, Sarica slowly pulls out his finger, lingering at Anakin's very opening to massage his well-used nerve endings, still contracting a little bit against him as he finally withdraws. His own cock is painful.
And his hands, when he places them flat on the tabletop on either side of Anakin's head to push off of him, shaking. ]
[ He's floating, just a little besides himself, feeling light all over and endlessly heavy, too, like he couldn't possibly move from this very spot on this very tabletop even if someone threw a grenade at him or something. He groans. Licks his lips, realising that he's resting his face in his own drool puddle. Ugh. Bad. Not very but still. Ugh.
Sarica, meanwhile, rubs his fingers, slick from cum, between his shoulder blades and Anakin's shoulders relax a bit more from the attention though honestly, he shouldn't be physically capable of relaxing any further than he already is. Force. Sarica pulls his finger out slowly, Anakin's arse clenching in the wake of it and when the other man presses his fingertip briefly against the rim, he makes a weird, high-pitched sound in his throat, not unlike an animal that someone's managed to step on by accident.
As the other man pushes off him, Anakin very nearly turns on the spot and grabs for him. He doesn't want the distance. He wants the weight, the gravity of it because right now, he can't imagine getting angry enough to choke anyone. Not at all. He can't imagine that he'd ever drift away that far, that he could go farther yet and farther, until he lost all traces of his own mooring. He can't imagine.
Doesn't want to, either.
Finding purchase with his metal hand, he finally lifts himself up and off the tabletop, wincing as his cheek actually sticks to it for a moment, his own saliva clinging to his skin. He scrambles against the floor for balance for half an undignified second before he finds his feet and turns, clumsily, until he can face Sarica. The other man's cock is flushed from arousal, heavy and hard against his stomach. Anakin's arsehole actually clenches again, like his body's already decided what goes where and how.
Things tend to progress, with Anakin.
He looks up at Sarica from beneath hooded eyes, his hair crawling into his face. Grabbing the table hard with both hands, he swallows thickly before he speaks. ]
Could you fuck me in your bed?
[ He looks down, lips twitching in a near-smile. ]
[ And suddenly, the proximity is lost and there's distance in its stead and they're looking at each other, both half-dressed and mostly naked, and Anakin asks... Anakin asks...
Sarica has to breathe in very deeply, filling his lungs to the brim as he looks the other man over and takes him in, how he's disheveled him, taken him apart a little at the seams, so there's a glimpse of the stuff within. He's beautiful and Sarica wants nothing more than to fill him up, his mouth, his arse, his whole body, head to toe. He wants to have his place inside of him, first and last, Anakin Skywalker. First and last.
Thus, he smiles, a sharp tug at the corner of his mouth, though not cruel or unkind, just amused in that way that is Sarica's own. He crosses the distance between them, the thing that there's too much of currently, and reaches up to cup his cheek, his fingers still smelling like cock and cum, before leaning in and kissing him. His hand slides up into his hair, doesn't pull, though. Not this time. Anakin will follow at his own leisure. His own volition.
But he keeps kissing him for a long while, only pulling back once the strain in his cock gets too much to bear and he steps back, turning towards the entrace doors, left ajar, and heading for them, unceremoniously, no dallying about. The sound of his sandals against the floor is weirdly clothed, considering what they've just done, what they're about to do. So he shrugs out of his tunic on the way, leaving it in a heap on the gathering room floor. Naked, just in his sandals, he looks at Anakin over his shoulder, raising one eyebrow slightly. ]
Since I plan to bend you over till your knees touch your shoulders, comfort is not a thing I can promise you. [ Thank you kindly for that time by the campfire, it means, my old man back says. Sarica smiles, however, and throws the door to the hallways open, continuing down towards his bedroom, cutting a corner on the way, the shadows thick and long here. ] But I will promise you enjoyment.
[ Only once he's inside the bedroom does he bend down to loosen his sandal straps, kicking the footwear off into a corner, he doesn't care which one and turns towards Anakin, opening his arms.
[ Sarica watches him for a long moment, looking him over and Anakin lets him, lets himself be displayed. He'd probably blush if he could, except his blood feels somehow too thick to do much of anything at the moment. Along with the rest of his body, Anakin feels heavy all over - muscles, bone, skin. The orgasm has receded but the pleasure lingers, still, and his mind is quiet.
When the other man steps into his personal space with an expression that most people would probably find suspicious (Anakin, on his part, recognises Sarica and the ways he carries himself and this smile, sharp and transitory, is exactly him), Anakin opens his arms to him and meets his kiss head-on, smelling himself on his fingers when Sarica touches his face. They stay like that, kissing, entwined, and Sarica's cock feels wet near the tip against his thigh, wet and hard. Anakin thinks about touching it. But his arse feels weirdly empty now and he wants the other man, wants to feel him sink in and lose himself.
So he keeps his hands to himself, aside from grabbing onto Sarica's tunic until he pulls out of the kiss and walks away.
It takes Anakin's brain an embarrassing five seconds to put the pieces together.
Then, he scrambles after the other man, picking up his trousers on the way like a second thought and shrugging out of his tunic. Naked, he also grabs Sarica's tunic off the floor without thinking about it, like it's second nature - and so, he freezes in place, standing there with too much fabric between his fingers and he thinks about Sarica, fingering him, about simply lying on the tabletop and taking it with the other man's weight bearing down along his back, warm, comfortable, safe. His fingers tighten almost to the point of a tremble.
He takes both tunics with him and leaves them together in a pile on a chair in the bedroom. The shadows in the room stretch across Sarica's face but his eyes go free, dark as they already are, and the depth within them makes Anakin feel small, even born as he was half-way from the very fabric of the universe itself. He pauses. Looks at Sarica's open arms for a moment before he steps into them, curling both arms around the other man's waist and going straight for his lips. He presses up against Sarica's front, feeling the whole length of him, his nakedness and the softness of his skin and backs them towards the bed. ]
[ You can tell a horse patience many times, but when it smells the hay, it'll hurry to the trough regardless. That's how it is with Anakin, he thinks, as the other man throws off his bundle of fabric on the nearest chair, his own tunic, Sarica's, and the thought only makes his cock throb harder for him. He didn't ask him to collect after him, he didn't say he should, but he did so anyway. He wanted to, he wanted to please him. Because Sarica has just pleased him. It's not an exchange, it's a mirror, Sarica never understood this before, not well enough at least. He may have grasped at it, but he never saw - not as clearly as he does now, Anakin walking over to him and pushing up against his body, taking his mouth, overly eager, tongue, a little bit of teeth and Sarica grunts against him as he actually starts backing them up towards the bed. It's halfway a laugh, a snort, a you're daring, youngster. Yet, he doesn't try to turn them around, he doesn't try to one-up him, but lets him have the lead. Sarica will be given back the reins soon enough. To this particular horse.
Arms coming up to slide around Anakin's shoulders, grabbing him hard, fingers curling over the base of his neck, like a hold, a stay, don't move, he lets himself fall down onto the bed and drags Anakin with him, the whole structure creaking as they hit the mattress, but it holds, it's good carpentry. Sarica would never buy a bed that couldn't stand a round of rough fucking. Really.
What purpose would it have, then? Sleep? Come now, he can sleep when he gets old. Older.
Anakin always makes him feel ageless, in both the infinite and the definite way.
Pulling the other man on top of him, getting their legs well and truly entangled, then their tongues, and everything tastes and feels like him, Sarica pulls out of the kiss and turns his head to the side, lifting his left hand to his mouth and sucking three fingers in between his lips, wetting them throughly, until they're dripping and his wrist feels wet. All the while, he keeps his eyes on Anakin in the darkness, both eyebrows going up once he pops his fingers out of his mouth. There was the taste of the other man's cum and cock, for a while. It's all saliva now. Watery. Thin, in comparison. ]
For your enjoyment. [ A deep inhale, then he looks down between them, reaching down Anakin's front, teasing his fingers from his midriff and down, until he can curl his fingers around his still soft balls, weighing them gently on his palm, feeling out the outline of his testicles, feeling the skin grow slick and warm. Mm.
Sarica leans his forehead in against the side of Anakin's face. ] We're going slow. Patience.
[ The fact that he still hasn't ejaculated spontaneously himself is some kind of miracle. He'll give the Mysteries that, if nothing else. ]
[ They tumble onto the bed, legs entangled. Anakin doesn't break the kiss, taking full advantage of the angle now, with Sarica beneath him and suddenly so thoroughly within reach. It's an immense contrast from before, when he'd had his back to him and his hands spread out against the tabletop, unable to reach. The other man tastes exactly as he should, warm and close and well-known and when he draws back, Anakin almost doesn't let him. He's gasping, a growl forming in the back of his throat though it dies there, too, completely and utterly, as Sarica turns his head to the side and pushes three fingers into his own mouth.
Anakin stares, transfixed, at the stretch of the other man's lips and the way his skin grows gradually slicker from spit. His lips are glossy from it, too, and a bit swollen. His cock is definitely waking up again, growing half-hard against his thigh, the remnants of his orgasm lingering in his body as a persistent thrum of pleasure. When Sarica reaches down between them, he shivers and dips his chin to follow the motion of his hand, watching as the other man fingers his balls, a gentle exploration that makes his belly feel tight from arousal. He exhales audibly. Patience says Sarica and Anakin makes a choked-off sound, a half-laugh edged with something else.
Apparently, no matter his choices, he'll be forever doomed to have that word repeated at him.
He leans down and kisses Sarica's cheek, moving over the sharp line of his chin and feeling his dark stubble against his lips. Reaching down between them, taking care not to get his metal hand into some sort of territorial dispute with the other man's hand, he curls his fingers around Sarica's cock and strokes it gently, knowing full well that he isn't slick enough by far. Regardless, he also happens to know what Sarica thinks about this particular sensation and so, he runs his metal thumb over the head of his cock, coaxing precum from the tip and smearing it over the glans.
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Regardless, he just doesn't. ]
It's not the party.
[ He steps around the divan and comes to a stop in front of instead. Arms crossed, stance rigid, back to the beginning. His next words are sharp, his chin raised. ]
It's the people. [ Harder: ] They take liberties.
[ He didn't hate politicians before, back on Coruscant, but he thinks that's largely due to Palpatine and Padmé, embodying different aspects of the playing field that made all the rest of the individual players seem less redundant somehow. Less useless. He'd thought there was a point to the boundaries that were crossed or the ethics some chose to ignore, something to be gained in the long run that he simply didn't fully comprehend.
Then, Palpatine was a Sith Lord.
Hard to believe in anything he used to stand for, really.
Tonight, all he's seen is selfishness and greed, most of it pointed at Sarica and at him, by proxy. It disgusts him. ]
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[ It's not an apology. Sarica keeps wiping at the table, someone having spilled seasoned wine all over the corner, the thyme and the sugar-mix sticking, the cloth in his hand turning increasingly dark from grime, dark red splotched against white. Blood-like. Ulos knows things are changing, his grip on the power changing with it and the only way to keep Sarica centered in his usual spot is to do as they usually do, the same methods, the same indulgences. Frowning, Sarica gives up, straightening up fully and looking over at Anakin who's left the divan behind, because he doesn't need it for protection. He has strong hands, extensions of hands, he has Sarica, too. Sarica who should've been there to kick Ulos in the balls, hard enough that they went right back up his scrotum. Where they belong, no doubt.
He thinks about the peaduck that Toril had showed him, the feathers smeared in its own intestines, taking up double the space the birds usually do. Desperation's a very strong force to reckon with, isn't it? It ends wars. Starts them. It kills. It births.
Exhaling slowly, Sarica drops the cloth into a bucket of water, smudgy and gross at this point. Everything carries the stench of too many people, too much intrigue, games no one ever wins, because there's always a second round, a third, a fourth.
He dries off his palms in his tunic, caring little for the expensive, frail fabric with the red-brimmed edgings. All he cares for is Anakin. It shouldn't have ended this way, tonight. ]
That Ulos would try his luck is something I should have foreseen. Making you specifically off-limits has only spurred him on. It's my mistake.
[ Meeting the other man's eyes, it's clearly not an apology, Anakin doesn't need those, he needs someone to take responsibility, steering, sending people home, reining in the aftermath, that kind of thing. Well, Sarica will take it in full. ]
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But then, in complete contrast to that notion, Sarica tells him how he should have foreseen it, how this was his mistake because he knows Ulos very well and he thinks Anakin getting half-way molested in the gardens for all of five seconds is the problem at hand. It is, to him. He never seems to factor himself in much, Sarica. His own power, whatever that means to him.
Sarica, whom he loves.
Exhaling deeply, Anakin's shoulders lower. He pushes himself into gear, crossing the distance between them and stepping right up to Sarica. His tunic looks a little worse for wear now, not at all like that of a man who's just hosted a party for the Capital elite. There's something about his cleaning of the room, the set of his shoulders, that makes him seem tired. His edges, worn.
Chest tightening, Anakin slips both hands around his waist and pulls him up against him, front to front. He leans down and rests his forehead against his shoulder, his hair slipping into his face. Breathing him in, Anakin smells people, food, wine - but Sarica, first of all, his scent almost achingly familiar. ]
I'm not angry because of him. [ Pause. ] Not just because of him. I don't like the way they act with you - like they have a right to you, somehow.
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[ As always with Anakin, things happen very quickly. He moves forward very quickly, slips his arms around Sarica's waist very quickly. When the other man pulls him up against him, Sarica doesn't breach for it, he lands his own hands some place on Anakin's waist above the other man's arms gripping him and beneath shoulder level. Midriff, lungs heaving beneath his palms. Smoothly, but slowly he slips his spread fingers to what's to be made out of chest muscles beneath tunic, fabric crumbling between his fingers. Ah. Strong, forceful Anakin. Anakin who no doubt wants to do to all of them, his friends, what he did to the peaduck. Anakin who is strong enough to decide not to. His Anakin. He reaches up with one hand and runs it through the other man's hair, curling in his hold, when Anakin bends his head and presses his forehad to his shoulder, breathing him in. He inclines his head to the side, resting the side of his own face on top of Anakin's head, then. ]
They have a right to a person named Sarica who has died and is gone. He lives no more, do you understand? I am not threatened by their claims, because the one they seek doesn't exist. Do you understand?
[ His hold in Anakin's hair tightens until he's actively pulling at the strands, hard. Like that, he more or less yanks Anakin's head up until they're face to face again, looking into each other's eyes. He stares into him, stares into his depths, the vast darkness he carries inside and knows Anakin sees the same in him, this thing he's never shown anyone else. If it takes no slaves and no influence and nothing but this? He'll still take it. Let it be his. ]
We're not who we were, Anakin Skywalker. We must shed the old skin to fit into the new.
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We're not who we were says Sarica, gazing at him with all that intensity of his, sharp-edged and comforting, simultaneously. He sounds much older than his years sometimes, that man, like he's not just twenty years Anakin's senior but more, beyond. Anakin thinks about the life he must have led, with his bastard father (he doesn't know why the man deserved to be killed but he's got no doubts at all that he did), with his friends who aren't friends, who've once been entitled to Sarica even if they aren't, now. With Timachus who couldn't be free in relation to him, possibly because Sarica didn't know how to let him go.
He thinks about long, lonely nights in the dark vastness of space, listening to the other man's voice over the comlink. About Obi-Wan, years prior, telling him that dreams pass while his mother got tortured to death in the Tusken camp.
It seems in certain ways, they benefit from opposite learnings, him and Sarica, they have opposing trajectories that somehow, wildly and incomprehensibly, manage to remain both parallel and crossed. Sarica, who's had to learn how to let go in order to have. Anakin, who's had to learn that this kind of attachment doesn't have to spell defeat and terror and chaos and to trust in it. He swallows, staring into Sarica's eyes and seeing his own blue reflected there, not as a contrast but as a natural extension of the other man's own darkness.
So he leans in the rest of the way and kisses him, pressing his tongue past his lips with just a hint of urgency.
Returning himself, as it were. ]
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With his other arm he yanks at Anakin's shoulder, making him step all up against him, until they're aligned, head to toe. More, it says, never enough - rather than too much. Too much is a figment of the imagination, it simply doesn't exist, not in their world.
Not for men like them. Which is why this is the answer, why they can't do anything else in response.
He remembers the first time after Anakin's return, in Irestes' office at the Senate, he remembers sucking Anakin off, then having the favour returned. Along with his semen, returned. Anakin never doesn't give back, that's the magic. That's what makes him so extraordinary. He gives, gives, gives. Maybe it's about time he gets, gets, gets, yes.
Pushing his tongue up against Anakin's, meeting the intrusion with a suck, cheeks hollowing as he languidly drags his own tongue tip over the length of him, Sarica lets him feel him, the way his mouth works around him. His body feels oversaturated and held and Sarica wants to give, give, give now, be the one, to be the one for him. Dropping the hand not in Anakin's hair to his chest, feeling him out through his clothes, then further down, further - until he's cupping him lightly through his trousers, Sarica draws back and feels his own lips move, puffy and swollen, as he says: ]
Tell me what you want and I'll give it to you.
[ Their noses bump, their lips all but brushing. Anything, it means, ask me for anything, I can, I will, I want. ]
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Leaning into the kiss almost desperately, pushing his tongue past Sarica's lips again and feeling him out, he relishes the way the other man's gripping his hair, the hold. He feels grounded against him, as if they're both being rooted in place, hopelessly and wonderfully entangled. Groaning against Sarica's lips, he shivers as the other man runs his free hand down his front, down, oh - his cock practically jumps into the other man's grip at the contact. Heat pools in his belly.
Then, Sarica pulls out of the kiss and Anakin whimpers except he's a General and a Jedi Knight and the Hero-Blah-Blah-Chosen-One and he certainly doesn't whimper so. Yeah. He breathes hard against Sarica's lips, shifting his hips and thrusting up against his palm a little because he can't help himself. Oh, the friction's good. It's - yes. His body's been starved for points of contact all night; and it's a relief, really, to have it be about sex, about sex with Sarica, rather than... well. Violence against peaducks. Ulos. Et cetera.
His voice, when he speaks, is a little raw: ]
I...
[ He looks down between them. Then, he runs one hand up along Sarica's back, between his shoulder blades and rests it there, fingers spread out. He's hot underneath and Anakin can feel the way he breathes. He anchors himself within that thought. ]
Tell me. [ Lead me. Because they're here now, on the right track, and Anakin can't bear the thought of stumbling off it again, of struggling back. ] Tell me what to do.
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Mm.
[ He lets his eyes run over his features, strong, pretty - though Sarica rarely thinks of them as such, not out of a lack of noticing, but because there's so much fight and darkness in Anakin that his face looks apart from something as base as prettiness. Had he been half himself, he'd have been beautiful. As he is, he's more perfect than that. Gaze settling on his lips, running along the lines of them, the curves, the soft plumb feel that he can still taste, Sarica smiles slowly and leans in close, until their noses are almost bumping, breaths mingling, Anakin's breathing a little desperate, Sarica's alight. With his hand, he curls his fingers around what he can make out of Anakin's shaft, irritably pushing his tunic out of the way with his forearm, giving himself more direct contact, only the fabric of the man's gifted trousers keeping them apart. That's good. A little bit of layering only adds to it. Teasing.
Lead me, Anakin Skywalker is begging him and that, indeed, Sarica will give him and he will give him nothing else - than the trust that comes with leadership, when it's right.
With his free hand, Sarica reaches up and catches Anakin's chin between thumb and index finger, angling his face sharply downwards, the line of his mouth looking enticing this way, exactly like this. On display for him. Only for him. He huffs out a sharp breath and leans up on his toes, licking a fat trail over the other man's mouth, chin to nose. Marking him. Scent, fluids, presence.
Then, he draws back, a little, just a little. ]
Open your mouth, wide.
[ The thumb on his other hand, handling Anakin's cock, rubs over the ridge of foreskin evident even here, layers of fabric stretched across the head. Sarica is breathing shallowly against his face. ]
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The thought makes him want to kiss him again.
Except Sarica's fingering him through his trousers, feeling out the length of his shaft and the combined friction of his warm fingers and the slide of fabric makes him harden the rest of the way more or less instantly. Groaning, he follows the motion of Sarica's hand as he takes hold of his chin - he's got a thing about that, doesn't he, it's weirdly endearing. He looks down at the other man, eyes falling shut as Sarica gets on his toes (because he is quite short) and licks him, chin, lips, nose. Anakin inhales his scent greedily, letting the wetness cool against his skin as the other man draws back again. It feels like a print. A way to say, You're mine and I'm yours and it makes a difference, he thinks, to own each other, rather than to simply be owned.
It makes so much difference that he can't fully comprehend it.
Eyes opening slowly, he fixes his gaze, eyes dark, on Sarica's. Then, he opens his mouth wide and because of the way he's craning his face downwards, his mouth immediately waters, saliva gathering beneath his bottom lip. He gasps at the feel of Sarica's fingers against his foreskin, sensitive and pulled taut at this point. He can't help but thrust up against his hand a little, just - oh. Oh. ]
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Same way that no one can light it up.
They exist in between those extremes. Sarica tongues his lips, then plunges his mouth and catches Anakin's tongue, stroking it hard with his own, forcing himself into him, taking his space within him. Claiming. Because there's room inside Sarica, too, just for Anakin and there are times when Anakin fills him out, as he's entitled to.
After a moment, he draws away completely, straightens up and looks the other man's face over, taking the split-second chance he gets in between pulling out of him and Anakin shutting his mouth to him again, in that window of opportunity he releases his hold on the other man's cock and raises his hand to his mouth, forcing two fingers in between his lips, letting them slide far back over his tongue. Oh, Anakin can take it. Anakin has done good work on his gag reflex.
And Sarica wants him to feel it, besides. To his core. ]
Suck.
[ Out the corner of his eye, he quickly goes over the layout of the room. They're about five steps from the nearest table and that should do, shouldn't it? Though Anakin will have to bend over deeply, because he's tall and the tables of Efith are fitted to their men, not so tall. Beginning to fuck the other man's mouth with his fingers slowly, deep thrusts, far in, he releases his face and reaches down between them, unceremoniously undoing the knot on Anakin's trousers, feeling the fabric slide down around his hips, knees, ankles.
Off, sounds the order. Give yourself to me. ]
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This is Sarica, plunging himself into the darkness of him. Unafraid. Steady like nothing - no one - else. He pulls out of the kiss and half a second later, Anakin's being filled by his fingers instead, the other man keeping his chin still, in position for him. Big fingers, Sarica. Big and long and slim and beautiful. Anakin groans around them, at the way the other man rubs over his tongue and in, relaxing to give him as much room as he'd like. He can take it. He wants to.
As Sarica starts fucking his mouth, telling him to suck - and he does, naturally, immediately - he can feel himself letting the evening go and he thinks, oh, this is what it means when they say to release your negative emotions. He's not doing it himself, he's well aware, Sarica's doing it with him.
Anakin loves him.
He sucks on Sarica's fingertips hard at every instroke, his cock achingly hard at this point, devoid of friction except for the fabric of his trousers, straining around it. He thinks about reaching for it, maybe reaching for Sarica first, but tempers himself for just long enough that the urge ceases to matter. Sarica reaches down and opens his trousers and they fall down his hips, pooling around his feet. The shock of cool air against his cock and balls, his arse, makes him gasp around Sarica's fingers and he looks at the other man, saliva slipping down his fingers and wrist. Then, eyes narrowing in concentration, he reaches up with his metal hand, freeing it from around Sarica's waist and curls his fingers around his elbow, keeping his hand where it is, balancing it.
Carefully, he steps out of his trousers, managing not to break the flow of Sarica's fingers in his mouth. He gives him a triumphant look, eyebrows raised.
Have me, it means. I'm pretty good. ]
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Pushing in and drawing back, relishing the feel of his fingertips rubbing over soft palate, softer yet tongue, he watches through narrowed eyes as Anakin gasps at the exposure to the air, chilly tonight, even inside, but then counters the moment of surprise by reaching up with his metal hand and grabbing Sarica's elbow, keeping his fingers deeply buried and continuously burying into his mouth while he, carefully, steps out of his trousers - letting himself be fucked the entire way. He's so very good with his body, Anakin Skywalker. He knows how to use it and he takes it well.
Sarica imagines what he could do with his spit-slick fingers now, imagines bending Anakin over that low table and have him open up. They haven't done anything to his arse beyond tongue stimulation, Anakin hasn't asked for it and Sarica hasn't pressured, as is his way. But he thinks now is the time. He thinks he wants to be inside the other man, to the core of him, deeper than his mouth cavity, deeper than his fingers will go, too.
He wants to fuck him. Tell me what to do, Anakin begged.
With a grunt, he pulls out his fingers from Anakin's mouth, they're dripping with spit and he keeps his hand raised to preserve as much of it as possible. With his other hand, he roughly reaches up and grabs hold of the other man's hair by the neck, tightening his hold until it must hurt a little bit, they both know what it's like to want to hold on to someone convulsively, Anakin will understand. Sarica turns towards the table on his right and more or less drags Anakin with him by his hair, the taller man having to bend over a little bit to stay on level. ]
You're good. Now, follow.
[ Leading Anakin Skywalker over to the table at a leisurely pace, he pushes him in over the tabletop with something alike gentleness, waiting for the other man to keep himself raised on his hands and then, holds him there, bent over, using one foot to kick his legs apart enough to level out his balance. The hold in his hair becomes a caress, back of head, neck. ]
I'm going to fuck you, Anakin. Have you imagined it?
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Somewhere along the line, he's managed to release Sarica's wrist. Now, instead, he runs his palm up the length of his back for as long as he's able, before Sarica quite uncerimonously reaches their destination and pushes him in over the tabletop. Anakin moves a bit jerkily, trying to keep up, hands fumbling for purchase for a split-second before he manages to regain his balance.
As Sarica kicks his legs apart, he blinks. This position, it's - he swallows heavily, his muscles tense along his back and buttocks, his hands clenching into fists against the tabletop. I'm going to fuck you says Sarica, his grip on Anakin's hair no longer forceful but steady, calm; a fast and seamless transformation. Slowly, almost as if dazed, Anakin rests his face against the tabletop, his hair tumbling into his eyes. He looks up at the ceiling and shifts, his cock trapped between his stomach and the edge of the table.
No less hard for that, though.
Clearing his throat, he says, voice hoarse: ]
Sometimes, yeah.
[ He spreads his legs a little more. Puts himself on display because well, he already is. It's how Sarica wants him and that, in turn, is what Anakin asked of him. To want him and to tell him how. He blushes at his next words, which is perhaps somewhat absurd at this point: ]
I've - I've tried. With my fingers.
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A long, shaking inhalation and he lets Anakin's words sink in, the way his voice sounds hoarse and he blushes, by the Mysteries, and no one has ever. No one has ever been there with their cocks first. He feels it even through his trousers, how his cock is weeping at all the implications. Anakin, touching himself. Anakin, waiting for Sarica to touch him, in turn. With efficient hands, he undoes his own trousers and lets them fall to the floor, stepping out of them with practiced ease. Only then does he step up behind him, until they're presses together, thighs against thighs, crotch to arse, and leans in over him, letting him feel the bulge and pressure of his cock. Letting him feel his presence, his nearness.
How inseparable they could be. ]
Were you as good to yourself as you are to me?
[ His voice is quiet, calm, pleasant. The question conversational, like they are eating dinner together, not this close - oh, this close to fucking. Sarica's cock slips up between Anakin's buttocks and he drags it all the way, from balls to tailbone. Gently, he runs both hands, palms down, finger spread, over the other man's back, from waist to shoulder blades. Just so he feels the weight of him. The warmth. He holds so much warmth for this man, that fire priest couldn't burn him like Anakin does.
He steps back a little, just enough to give himself room. Lifting one hand to his mouth, not quite incidentally - the one bearing all the residue of Anakin's spit, he sucks three fingers into his mouth and wets them thoroughly, noisily, before dropping it to Anakin's arse, letting him feel the wet trail of his fingers, waist to cleft. He pushes two fingers in between his buttocks, just to open him up a little. Sarica doesn't push, he doesn't penetrate, staying clear of his rim altogether. ]
Tell me what you did.
[ I'll match, it means, with my fingers. ]
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Oh.
At the other man's question, he shivers - because he does try to be good to Sarica and he's just about vain enough that he'd assumed he wasn't bad but... regardless, it's always nice to get praise. Anakin, in particular, lives for it, so long as it comes from someone he loves. Sarica's hands against his back feel loving, for sure, warm and steady, a weight that simply keeps. Anakin runs his fingertips across the tabletop slowly, dragging over its surface as he tries to come up with an answer while his brain just stops on the sensation of Sarica's cock, pressing up against him. Before he can actually manage to dredge up something passable, however, Sarica pulls back a little and suddenly - oh. That's... the sound of him sucking his fingers.
Anakin's cock jerks pitifully beneath the table. ]
I...
[ He clears his throat again, maybe a little desperately. Just slightly. Sarica follows up by running his wet fingertips down to his arse, pressing in between his buttocks, parting them slightly. Lips parted wordlessly, Anakin tries to remember how to breathe because that, at least, is quite instrumental in the further act of forming a coherent sentence.
Come on. Kriff. ]
I've - I haven't gone very far. [ He's definitely flushing down his shoulders now, as well. ] Just one - two... I couldn't really...
[ Get them in, he wants to say but doesn't, it's too much. Instead, he rubs his forehead against his metal arm, some of his hair getting stuck in the gears. He pulls it out, forcibly, losing the strands in the process. ]
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Sarica breathes in loud and harsh, starts wetting up his arsehole more forcibly, feeling it getting slicker and slicker from his own and Anakin's spit, combined. The thought makes his balls draw up and with his free hand he reaches down to temper himself, wait. Give time. ]
Patience. [ He speaks in a quiet, steady voice, spending another good minute on just rubbing at Anakin's rim, every second push, he dips the tip of his index finger in, not even to the first knuckle - just so the other man feels the pressure, the promise. ] You've been over-eager.
[ The thought makes absolutely everything burn, by the Mysteries. ]
I'll go so slow that, by the end, Anakin, you'll be begging me to just put it in, do you trust me with that?
[ It's not truly a question, he knows the answer. They've told each other everything, they've told each other I love you, there's nothing left they can give, except the verbalisation and Sarica wants to hear him say it, put those words in his mouth, filling himself with Sarica there, too. With his free hand, he runs his hand back up Anakin's back, the tunic riding up high like that, and once he reaches his shoulder blades, placing his palm right between them, he presses down, forcing him further down against the tabletop, putting his whole backside on display. Strong legs, firm buttocks, pliant little rim that starts giving more and more until it's absolutely no problem pushing his index finger inside him, a slow penetration. He feels like moulded stone and fire inside. Sarica can't breathe for it, stilling with his finger buried in him to the last knuckle, giving him time - because time is key - to get used to the feeling. The always strange and always wonderful sensation of someone else taking their fill of you.
If nothing else, Sarica is taking his fill with the utmost adoration. He would never want Anakin to have the experiences he himself has had, really, he'd kill the same men who've fucked him over the years if they as much as looked at Anakin wrong, he'd definitely have killed Ulos, but Anakin is better than that.
Anakin is better. ]
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Patience, says Sarica and dips his finger in, just the tip, and the sudden sense if intrusion is equal parts strange and exciting, Anakin's hard cock jumping pathetically against his abdomen, what little it can manage with the table in the way. He groans, feeling the cool metal of his arm against his forehead, a contrast to the heat inside him. The stretch of Sarica's finger isn't impossible, far from it, and he gets used to it fairly quickly - regardless, he feels hot back there, the sensitive nerves shooting sparks of pleasure into his balls.
His cock feels already very much on the edge, here.
Before he can answer Sarica's question, the man proceeds to run his hand up his back and pushing him down and Anakin follows along, his back arching in response, his arse on even bigger display like that and Force, is it possible to get anymore exposed than this? He bites his lower lip, breathing in harshly, maybe a bit too quickly - and then, oh, oh, Sarica finally pushes deep, all the way into his body. Anakin startles against the table, twisting slightly, his flesh hand curling and un-curling next to his chin. ]
Ah!
[ He gasps. Whenever he shifts, Sarica's finger moves within him, moves with him and it makes his arsehole twinge a little. He's never gone that deep himself, never quite managed a good angle for it (mostly because he's been too embarrassed to search for one) and the feeling makes him light-headed, his cock actually spurting pre-cum at this point. He tries, voice faint: ]
Not so sure I'll last for that long, honestly. [ He shifts a little again, trying not to give himself friction in a way that'll set him off. ] But yeah, I trust you.
[ And he does. He'll trust him with begging, with war and politics and his own peace of mind. It's where they've ended up now, him and Sarica, and Anakin's always followed that particular path quite willingly, at least before it became a sign of weakness; loving people. Fully, without restraint. ]
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Then, trust me to make you come twice.
[ It's gently teasing, it says don't worry about it, it doesn't matter to me and I could come just watching you give yourself over like this, I'd gladly come now, with you. Because, with Anakin's lack of an actual refractory period, he'll be ready again in due time for Sarica to take him, and he'll be endlessly more relaxed, too. It might even be the ideal way.
So, Sarica leans in over his back then, he lies across one half of his body, keeping him down and tethered and safe, letting Anakin feel his heat and his weight and his steadiness, fucking into him slowly with his finger, while - with his other hand - Sarica reaches beneath the table and firmly grabs him by the base of his cock, angling it away from his body a bit, giving him room. On the next in-stroke, he starts stroking his cock as well, simultaneously bending his finger and rubbing very lightly over that spot inside him, feeling for it, caressing it, drawing back, pushing in again, repeat.
His own cock is weeping precum against the upper part of Anakin's naked inner thigh and Sarica has to steel himself, not to thrust forward, give himself more, take it. He might not want to hold Anakin back, but himself? That's another matter. ]
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His arsehole is getting used to the sensation too, he finds. It burned maybe a little bit to begin with but right now, there's just that wet glide of the other man's finger, filling him up and keeping him open. He shifts, trying to spread his legs a bit more when Sarica reaches for his cock with his other hand and just the fact that he's touching him makes his balls draw up. Mouth hanging open (and drooling unhindered on the tabletop, yes, thanks), Anakin forgets to breathe.
Then, Sarica... does something with his finger inside his arse, hits... something - something -- ]
Aaah!
[ He actually jumps slightly, his buttocks clenching violently along with his arsehole and then, breath stuck in his throat, he comes like it's a fucking explosion, all over Sarica's hand and the floor and whatever else, who cares, Kriff, what the hell was that and oh, his muscles - everything feels almost oversaturated with warmth. He's clenching around Sarica's finger and writhing on the table, curling in against the heat of Sarica's body against his back, trying to disappear within him, within whatever part of him he can reach.
The pleasure nearly blinds him.
He's breathing raggedly as the flood of it ebbs out. ]
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Watching him, the way he writhes and gasps and drools and pushes himself in against him, like he wants more and more and more and Sarica will give him all of it, everything, patience, Anakin Skywalker, and you will not be in want of anything anymore - yes, watching him like that, Sarica absentmindedly remembers that he can't actually pinpoint the first time he was made aware of this particular spot, that one day he simply knew and it made sex easier, more pleasurable and enjoyable, but most of all, easy. He would never want the same experience for Anakin, by the Mysteries, how disappointed he'd be if Anakin won't remember twenty years from now this exact fuck and how Sarica made him spend himself all over the floor and his fingers and his arsehole contracting around his intruding finger. So disappointed.
As it is, he just waits it out, Anakin's orgasm, the way it floods him and takes him in waves, and his whole body becomes both too huge and too small for its own skin and he's crawling into him, while his arsehole still clenches around his finger and Sarica truly, truly has to keep himself focused not to come at the mere sight. He lies across his back, feels how his breathing is torn from his lungs, ragged and hard, and he slowly releases Anakin's cock to reach up and rub his cum-covered fingers over the fabric between the other man's shoulder blades, just stroking him softly, letting him land again. ]
Relax. I'm going to pull out now, give you a moment to fall down, before we build you up again, understood?
[ With that, Sarica slowly pulls out his finger, lingering at Anakin's very opening to massage his well-used nerve endings, still contracting a little bit against him as he finally withdraws. His own cock is painful.
And his hands, when he places them flat on the tabletop on either side of Anakin's head to push off of him, shaking. ]
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Sarica, meanwhile, rubs his fingers, slick from cum, between his shoulder blades and Anakin's shoulders relax a bit more from the attention though honestly, he shouldn't be physically capable of relaxing any further than he already is. Force. Sarica pulls his finger out slowly, Anakin's arse clenching in the wake of it and when the other man presses his fingertip briefly against the rim, he makes a weird, high-pitched sound in his throat, not unlike an animal that someone's managed to step on by accident.
As the other man pushes off him, Anakin very nearly turns on the spot and grabs for him. He doesn't want the distance. He wants the weight, the gravity of it because right now, he can't imagine getting angry enough to choke anyone. Not at all. He can't imagine that he'd ever drift away that far, that he could go farther yet and farther, until he lost all traces of his own mooring. He can't imagine.
Doesn't want to, either.
Finding purchase with his metal hand, he finally lifts himself up and off the tabletop, wincing as his cheek actually sticks to it for a moment, his own saliva clinging to his skin. He scrambles against the floor for balance for half an undignified second before he finds his feet and turns, clumsily, until he can face Sarica. The other man's cock is flushed from arousal, heavy and hard against his stomach. Anakin's arsehole actually clenches again, like his body's already decided what goes where and how.
Things tend to progress, with Anakin.
He looks up at Sarica from beneath hooded eyes, his hair crawling into his face. Grabbing the table hard with both hands, he swallows thickly before he speaks. ]
Could you fuck me in your bed?
[ He looks down, lips twitching in a near-smile. ]
Kinda want to be comfortable.
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Sarica has to breathe in very deeply, filling his lungs to the brim as he looks the other man over and takes him in, how he's disheveled him, taken him apart a little at the seams, so there's a glimpse of the stuff within. He's beautiful and Sarica wants nothing more than to fill him up, his mouth, his arse, his whole body, head to toe. He wants to have his place inside of him, first and last, Anakin Skywalker. First and last.
Thus, he smiles, a sharp tug at the corner of his mouth, though not cruel or unkind, just amused in that way that is Sarica's own. He crosses the distance between them, the thing that there's too much of currently, and reaches up to cup his cheek, his fingers still smelling like cock and cum, before leaning in and kissing him. His hand slides up into his hair, doesn't pull, though. Not this time. Anakin will follow at his own leisure. His own volition.
But he keeps kissing him for a long while, only pulling back once the strain in his cock gets too much to bear and he steps back, turning towards the entrace doors, left ajar, and heading for them, unceremoniously, no dallying about. The sound of his sandals against the floor is weirdly clothed, considering what they've just done, what they're about to do. So he shrugs out of his tunic on the way, leaving it in a heap on the gathering room floor. Naked, just in his sandals, he looks at Anakin over his shoulder, raising one eyebrow slightly. ]
Since I plan to bend you over till your knees touch your shoulders, comfort is not a thing I can promise you. [ Thank you kindly for that time by the campfire, it means, my old man back says. Sarica smiles, however, and throws the door to the hallways open, continuing down towards his bedroom, cutting a corner on the way, the shadows thick and long here. ] But I will promise you enjoyment.
[ Only once he's inside the bedroom does he bend down to loosen his sandal straps, kicking the footwear off into a corner, he doesn't care which one and turns towards Anakin, opening his arms.
Come, it means. ]
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When the other man steps into his personal space with an expression that most people would probably find suspicious (Anakin, on his part, recognises Sarica and the ways he carries himself and this smile, sharp and transitory, is exactly him), Anakin opens his arms to him and meets his kiss head-on, smelling himself on his fingers when Sarica touches his face. They stay like that, kissing, entwined, and Sarica's cock feels wet near the tip against his thigh, wet and hard. Anakin thinks about touching it. But his arse feels weirdly empty now and he wants the other man, wants to feel him sink in and lose himself.
So he keeps his hands to himself, aside from grabbing onto Sarica's tunic until he pulls out of the kiss and walks away.
It takes Anakin's brain an embarrassing five seconds to put the pieces together.
Then, he scrambles after the other man, picking up his trousers on the way like a second thought and shrugging out of his tunic. Naked, he also grabs Sarica's tunic off the floor without thinking about it, like it's second nature - and so, he freezes in place, standing there with too much fabric between his fingers and he thinks about Sarica, fingering him, about simply lying on the tabletop and taking it with the other man's weight bearing down along his back, warm, comfortable, safe. His fingers tighten almost to the point of a tremble.
He takes both tunics with him and leaves them together in a pile on a chair in the bedroom. The shadows in the room stretch across Sarica's face but his eyes go free, dark as they already are, and the depth within them makes Anakin feel small, even born as he was half-way from the very fabric of the universe itself. He pauses. Looks at Sarica's open arms for a moment before he steps into them, curling both arms around the other man's waist and going straight for his lips. He presses up against Sarica's front, feeling the whole length of him, his nakedness and the softness of his skin and backs them towards the bed. ]
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Arms coming up to slide around Anakin's shoulders, grabbing him hard, fingers curling over the base of his neck, like a hold, a stay, don't move, he lets himself fall down onto the bed and drags Anakin with him, the whole structure creaking as they hit the mattress, but it holds, it's good carpentry. Sarica would never buy a bed that couldn't stand a round of rough fucking. Really.
What purpose would it have, then? Sleep? Come now, he can sleep when he gets old. Older.
Anakin always makes him feel ageless, in both the infinite and the definite way.
Pulling the other man on top of him, getting their legs well and truly entangled, then their tongues, and everything tastes and feels like him, Sarica pulls out of the kiss and turns his head to the side, lifting his left hand to his mouth and sucking three fingers in between his lips, wetting them throughly, until they're dripping and his wrist feels wet. All the while, he keeps his eyes on Anakin in the darkness, both eyebrows going up once he pops his fingers out of his mouth. There was the taste of the other man's cum and cock, for a while. It's all saliva now. Watery. Thin, in comparison. ]
For your enjoyment. [ A deep inhale, then he looks down between them, reaching down Anakin's front, teasing his fingers from his midriff and down, until he can curl his fingers around his still soft balls, weighing them gently on his palm, feeling out the outline of his testicles, feeling the skin grow slick and warm. Mm.
Sarica leans his forehead in against the side of Anakin's face. ] We're going slow. Patience.
[ The fact that he still hasn't ejaculated spontaneously himself is some kind of miracle. He'll give the Mysteries that, if nothing else. ]
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Anakin stares, transfixed, at the stretch of the other man's lips and the way his skin grows gradually slicker from spit. His lips are glossy from it, too, and a bit swollen. His cock is definitely waking up again, growing half-hard against his thigh, the remnants of his orgasm lingering in his body as a persistent thrum of pleasure. When Sarica reaches down between them, he shivers and dips his chin to follow the motion of his hand, watching as the other man fingers his balls, a gentle exploration that makes his belly feel tight from arousal. He exhales audibly. Patience says Sarica and Anakin makes a choked-off sound, a half-laugh edged with something else.
Apparently, no matter his choices, he'll be forever doomed to have that word repeated at him.
He leans down and kisses Sarica's cheek, moving over the sharp line of his chin and feeling his dark stubble against his lips. Reaching down between them, taking care not to get his metal hand into some sort of territorial dispute with the other man's hand, he curls his fingers around Sarica's cock and strokes it gently, knowing full well that he isn't slick enough by far. Regardless, he also happens to know what Sarica thinks about this particular sensation and so, he runs his metal thumb over the head of his cock, coaxing precum from the tip and smearing it over the glans.
Patience, right?
Believe in it. ]
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