[ The stool creaks beneath them, fortunately sturdy enough to accommodate them, but still suffering from it, loudly.
Sarica's eyes are narrow enough that there's only a sliver of iris and pupil left, staring into the other man's face as he straightens up and pushes down over his cock, taking him, taking him inside. Past the head, it's easier, they've already breached the widest point and Anakin is tight and slippery and warm around him, Sarica's breaths speeding up until he's at a pant, more or less, hands running down over Anakin's shoulders, the cloak getting in the way. He shoves it off, letting it fall and caring little how dirty it'll get. Horse manure or cum, one's perhaps slightly easier to clean off than the other. Like that, Anakin is sitting completely naked in his lap, long-limbed and glorious and Sarica's hands roam. It's possessiveness, perhaps, or admiration. He was twenty-three once, too, but by the Mysteries, they'd never gifted him in this way.
He knows what he must look like in the other man's eyes, Sarica has fucked in front of mirrors before, he knows how drawn his face gets, deep and dark, mouth half-open and lips swollen from kissing. Bangs clinging to his forehead, sticky from sweat. He wants Anakin to see all that, he wants him to have it, this person Sarica is now, the man twenty years his senior, older, even, than his Master. He wants him to know Sarica was young once and he isn't anymore and to love it.
Grunting low in his throat at the feeling of friction, the insistent, even slide of Anakin's arse, he grabs him by the waist, both hands, following his movements rather than pushing. Oh, Anakin's on top, Anakin will decide and Sarica will subject himself to that. He's repaid handsomely, after all.
As he pushes himself forward a little, so they're chest to chest, Anakin's cock caught between their bodies, wet-tipped and throbbing hard, he holds him, keeping him close while he says, voice even: ]
You've been practicing. You've been practicing and you're very good, my friend.
[ Hands sinking backwards over the curve of Anakin's buttocks, he digs his fingers into both of them, spreading him enough to feel it around the base of his cock, angling himself upwards slightly, pulling Anakin down over him another inch, just a tiny addition of depth that's making him growl. Then, he holds him there, lips parted, and sweaty chest heaving against Anakin's front, lets him decide what to do with it. ]
[ He feels his cloak slipping down his shoulders, off, onto the floor, and it doesn't concern him in the slightest; it's a possession, a physical one, and compared to the rings on his metal fingers and the silver bangle around that same wrist, the cloak is just a cloak, a piece of fabric that can be replaced. True, it's a Jedi robe and perhaps he ought to show at least a modicum of respect for the sake of the institution but then again.
He's on leave?
Sarica's hands are big and warm against his back. The other man is watching him with all the intensity of a prowling predator, his hair clinging to his skin in strips of black and there's a depth to it, to him, that Anakin loves. It's experience, he thinks, and the way the world mirrors itself in his eyes because he's seen it, twice over, and it so rarely seems to frighten him.
Anakin's been afraid for too long.
He groans, loudly this time, when Sarica tells him he's good, the praise settling beneath his skin, making him tingle all over. He lets himself sink down a bit more, supported now by Sarica's fingers digging into his buttocks, spreading him over his cock. Muscles trembling only minutely from exertion, Anakin wraps both arms around Sarica's neck again and leans down, pressing their foreheads together in that way they both like, something that feels almost innately them. Then, breathing out harshly, he sits down the rest of the way until he's pressed completely over Sarica's lap and Force, he's so full of him, completely overtaken. Oh. He rolls his hips back and forth, slowly at first, then faster, the other man's cock gliding in and out of his arsehole at the movement, not a long slide but persistent. ]
Say that again.
[ He's panting against Sarica's forehead and the bridge of his nose, his lips sliding over his skin. They're so close like this. Every time they aren't, he misses him. ]
[ It rolls over his tongue, no hesitation. Sarica guards his words only insofar that he chooses them deliberately, he doesn't hold back or hurry, he lets them speak for themselves.
Anakin has leaned down enough to press his forehead against Sarica's, and they're close everywhere, from the pesistent slide of Anakin's body and its inner workings, yes, this man who's taken him to the base, rolling his hips back and forth, fucking himself deep now and who has taught him these things, Sarica certainly hasn't, or perhaps he has - to their overheated foreheads pushing over each other, hard curve of skull against skull. It bumps and it rubs and their noses touch, their breaths mingle. They could as well be one and the same person. He wants that, he wants that for himself and by extension, for Anakin, too. Here, now, their goals are identical.
Please, release, proximity.
He can't return. Kenobi can't take him along when he goes, as he will, leave he must. And yet, Anakin doesn't belong here, Sarica knows. Like it's the case with all things, it's a matter of time.
Well, this is their time, then.
He groans, feels his hips shift, pushing his cock up into the wet tunnel of Anakin's arse, though the angle makes it less a question of Sarica's own agency and all about Anakin's, which is well and good. It's as it should be, too many have tried sneaking control out of his hands already. He grabs Anakin's one thigh, spreading his other hand out over the small of his back briefly, keeping him down, pressed down tightly over him for a moment. Every breath is a ragged shake of his chest. He sounds slightly choked, Sarica. He wants Anakin to sound the same.
Identically.
Reaching up blindly, he pushes his hand in between their faces, without forcing their foreheads apart, and clamps his palm over Anakin's half-open mouth, his breath hot against his skin. He holds him like that, firmly. ]
Be better and open up. Lick.
[ His palm pushes tighter, big and sweaty and smelling like them both. ]
[ He shudders, clinging to Sarica's words as much as his body, rolling his hips continuously and taking care to keep the pace even but slow, unhurried. They have time. They have time. Breathing raggedly, he gasps when Sarica pushes up into him, holding onto his thigh and the small of his back. It doesn't feel like he's getting pulled along or pushed, not in any way (and he realises now that he knows, he knows the difference, even if he isn't certain he'd recognise it beyond the two of them). Rather, when Sarica takes hold and keeps him down, speared on his cock, they're both following the other, taking turns.
Sarica sounds lovely like this, breaths sticking in his throat, his chest trembling between their bodies and Anakin watches him through the shades of his own hair falling into his eyes. He stays close, as close as he can possibly get, and when Sarica frees his hand and clamps it over his mouth, he doesn't even take half a second to catch onto his intent. It's a testament to the way they are in tune. On the battle field, it works somewhat similarly with him and his closest allies - Obi-Wan, Ahsoka.
This is different but Anakin can feel himself responding in the same fashion, with lightening-fast reflexes, with fluency.
Consequently, when Sarica speaks, Anakin's already wetting his own mouth in preperation. He licks the other man's palm sloppily, reaching for his wrist with his flesh hand and holding him still. He presses the width of his tongue against his skin and gets him slick, tasting his own sweat along with Sarica's. The pacing of his hips grow uneven, then, less proficient, because he might be showing off - regardless, he hasn't had anal sex as a recipient more than exactly once. He breathes harshly against Sarica's palm, feeling red and flushed all over, all the way down to his cock which is definitely close enough that he could plausibly come without touching it.
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no subject
Sarica's eyes are narrow enough that there's only a sliver of iris and pupil left, staring into the other man's face as he straightens up and pushes down over his cock, taking him, taking him inside. Past the head, it's easier, they've already breached the widest point and Anakin is tight and slippery and warm around him, Sarica's breaths speeding up until he's at a pant, more or less, hands running down over Anakin's shoulders, the cloak getting in the way. He shoves it off, letting it fall and caring little how dirty it'll get. Horse manure or cum, one's perhaps slightly easier to clean off than the other. Like that, Anakin is sitting completely naked in his lap, long-limbed and glorious and Sarica's hands roam. It's possessiveness, perhaps, or admiration. He was twenty-three once, too, but by the Mysteries, they'd never gifted him in this way.
He knows what he must look like in the other man's eyes, Sarica has fucked in front of mirrors before, he knows how drawn his face gets, deep and dark, mouth half-open and lips swollen from kissing. Bangs clinging to his forehead, sticky from sweat. He wants Anakin to see all that, he wants him to have it, this person Sarica is now, the man twenty years his senior, older, even, than his Master. He wants him to know Sarica was young once and he isn't anymore and to love it.
Grunting low in his throat at the feeling of friction, the insistent, even slide of Anakin's arse, he grabs him by the waist, both hands, following his movements rather than pushing. Oh, Anakin's on top, Anakin will decide and Sarica will subject himself to that. He's repaid handsomely, after all.
As he pushes himself forward a little, so they're chest to chest, Anakin's cock caught between their bodies, wet-tipped and throbbing hard, he holds him, keeping him close while he says, voice even: ]
You've been practicing. You've been practicing and you're very good, my friend.
[ Hands sinking backwards over the curve of Anakin's buttocks, he digs his fingers into both of them, spreading him enough to feel it around the base of his cock, angling himself upwards slightly, pulling Anakin down over him another inch, just a tiny addition of depth that's making him growl. Then, he holds him there, lips parted, and sweaty chest heaving against Anakin's front, lets him decide what to do with it. ]
no subject
He's on leave?
Sarica's hands are big and warm against his back. The other man is watching him with all the intensity of a prowling predator, his hair clinging to his skin in strips of black and there's a depth to it, to him, that Anakin loves. It's experience, he thinks, and the way the world mirrors itself in his eyes because he's seen it, twice over, and it so rarely seems to frighten him.
Anakin's been afraid for too long.
He groans, loudly this time, when Sarica tells him he's good, the praise settling beneath his skin, making him tingle all over. He lets himself sink down a bit more, supported now by Sarica's fingers digging into his buttocks, spreading him over his cock. Muscles trembling only minutely from exertion, Anakin wraps both arms around Sarica's neck again and leans down, pressing their foreheads together in that way they both like, something that feels almost innately them. Then, breathing out harshly, he sits down the rest of the way until he's pressed completely over Sarica's lap and Force, he's so full of him, completely overtaken. Oh. He rolls his hips back and forth, slowly at first, then faster, the other man's cock gliding in and out of his arsehole at the movement, not a long slide but persistent. ]
Say that again.
[ He's panting against Sarica's forehead and the bridge of his nose, his lips sliding over his skin. They're so close like this. Every time they aren't, he misses him. ]
no subject
[ It rolls over his tongue, no hesitation. Sarica guards his words only insofar that he chooses them deliberately, he doesn't hold back or hurry, he lets them speak for themselves.
Anakin has leaned down enough to press his forehead against Sarica's, and they're close everywhere, from the pesistent slide of Anakin's body and its inner workings, yes, this man who's taken him to the base, rolling his hips back and forth, fucking himself deep now and who has taught him these things, Sarica certainly hasn't, or perhaps he has - to their overheated foreheads pushing over each other, hard curve of skull against skull. It bumps and it rubs and their noses touch, their breaths mingle. They could as well be one and the same person. He wants that, he wants that for himself and by extension, for Anakin, too. Here, now, their goals are identical.
Please, release, proximity.
He can't return. Kenobi can't take him along when he goes, as he will, leave he must. And yet, Anakin doesn't belong here, Sarica knows. Like it's the case with all things, it's a matter of time.
Well, this is their time, then.
He groans, feels his hips shift, pushing his cock up into the wet tunnel of Anakin's arse, though the angle makes it less a question of Sarica's own agency and all about Anakin's, which is well and good. It's as it should be, too many have tried sneaking control out of his hands already. He grabs Anakin's one thigh, spreading his other hand out over the small of his back briefly, keeping him down, pressed down tightly over him for a moment. Every breath is a ragged shake of his chest. He sounds slightly choked, Sarica. He wants Anakin to sound the same.
Identically.
Reaching up blindly, he pushes his hand in between their faces, without forcing their foreheads apart, and clamps his palm over Anakin's half-open mouth, his breath hot against his skin. He holds him like that, firmly. ]
Be better and open up. Lick.
[ His palm pushes tighter, big and sweaty and smelling like them both. ]
no subject
Sarica sounds lovely like this, breaths sticking in his throat, his chest trembling between their bodies and Anakin watches him through the shades of his own hair falling into his eyes. He stays close, as close as he can possibly get, and when Sarica frees his hand and clamps it over his mouth, he doesn't even take half a second to catch onto his intent. It's a testament to the way they are in tune. On the battle field, it works somewhat similarly with him and his closest allies - Obi-Wan, Ahsoka.
This is different but Anakin can feel himself responding in the same fashion, with lightening-fast reflexes, with fluency.
Consequently, when Sarica speaks, Anakin's already wetting his own mouth in preperation. He licks the other man's palm sloppily, reaching for his wrist with his flesh hand and holding him still. He presses the width of his tongue against his skin and gets him slick, tasting his own sweat along with Sarica's. The pacing of his hips grow uneven, then, less proficient, because he might be showing off - regardless, he hasn't had anal sex as a recipient more than exactly once. He breathes harshly against Sarica's palm, feeling red and flushed all over, all the way down to his cock which is definitely close enough that he could plausibly come without touching it.
He'll leave that part for Sarica to decide. ]