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anchorage
He was warned about childhood floods.
He was not warned about this. Everyone has had their age adjusted, seemingly completely at random, and the Admiral apparently decided that for the full three-hundred-year experience, he had to be properly a ghost again.
For a moment, the sheer confusion is crippling - having his senses reduced back to sight and sound after months of tactile existence feels like waking from a vivid and beautiful dream, all the moreso given the barge's absurdities, except that he knows perfectly well that he can't dream. Not like this. Not in his real life.
But he can still see his room, perpetually lit, with his multicolored wall and his golden one, can still hear the wind chime turning in its corner. And in the bed, he can see Fives, alone, already startling awake at the sudden lack of weight.
He was not warned about this. Everyone has had their age adjusted, seemingly completely at random, and the Admiral apparently decided that for the full three-hundred-year experience, he had to be properly a ghost again.
For a moment, the sheer confusion is crippling - having his senses reduced back to sight and sound after months of tactile existence feels like waking from a vivid and beautiful dream, all the moreso given the barge's absurdities, except that he knows perfectly well that he can't dream. Not like this. Not in his real life.
But he can still see his room, perpetually lit, with his multicolored wall and his golden one, can still hear the wind chime turning in its corner. And in the bed, he can see Fives, alone, already startling awake at the sudden lack of weight.
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In the mirror, Jedao's reflection pulls back a little, rises up - as though on tiptoe, though of course his feet are out of view - enough to press a silent kiss to Fives' forehead where it's still resting against the glass, the image slightly smudged on the other side by steam that doesn't exist.
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He's glad he taught Jedao Mando'a, glad that he took to it, and understands. Because hearing those words, in that language... there's so much more meaning to them. A depth and profundity and commitment that Standard lacks. Likewise with the one he whispers next, eyes slipping shut on a sigh, "Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum." This might be almost exactly the same words as the ones he'd said just moments ago, but there's a certain inexplicable weight behind them. I hold you in my heart. Forever.
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"Literally, at the moment," Jedao comments, his mouth tilted bittersweet; his voice wavers and cracks, just slightly, as if he were the one revisiting his time as a teenager. He is alive through Fives; anchored, held, given light if not breath, a voice if not shape, only because Fives is there to hear him, heart and soul.
"Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum, Fives."
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Still, he thinks he could have lived without them, at least for a little longer, rather than have Jedao put through this. Though his resolve on that point waivers slightly with Jedao's final words, and he finds himself wondering if, maybe, tears aren't as much of an impossibility as he'd thought. The idea of it makes him stand a little more upright and press the heels of his hands into his eyes, the reaction visceral and immediate. Tears are a weakness he can't afford.
"What... ah, what would you like? To do? Now?" he asks, trying to distract himself, and his voice is definitely thick and a little wet. "Since you're stuck with me you should get some say."
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It is a strange and terrible intimacy with a stranger and more terrible cost; but for four hundred years it was the only intimacy he had. He's been dependent for so long on anchors who neither liked nor trusted him, and never on one he could trust, already trusted, in turn. It eases something in him, pulls the loose thread running like a surgical stitch through his whole sordid history, leaves healing skin behind.
"I don't want to share you yet," he decides. Not right after all this. Fives will have to go to work eventually; will have to go to meals, will have to make excuses to Steve and Nico and Wiliams and Holden - although some of those are duties he can carry out through Fives, once they've negotiated their time. And he wants to fight someone, to watch Fives move in Jedao's style. But not yet. Not now.
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"I only mind it because it means you're trapped," he admits quietly, dropping his hands finally, to reveal too bright eyes but none of the dreaded tears. And it's a confession of sorts. Of how much he hates being alone, how comforting it is to know that Jedao is with him, completely and inextricably. And no matter how much he misses being able to touch, how much he wants to explore every inch of Jedao's body, and hear what sounds he'll make, see how he'll move, learn how he'll touch in turn now that it's a thing he's allowed, he realizes that some part of him will miss this when it's gone.
"Good." There's no way to miss the relief--and pleasure--in that one sighed out word, and his lips tip up into a smile as he meets Jedao's eyes in the mirror. "I think, whatever we do next, that I need to clean up first." And his smile goes a little wry as he glances down at his hand, with dried come starting to flake off it, and his face as well, now, where he'd pressed his hands to his eyes.
"And then clean your floor," he adds, and there's definitely a certain amount of self-satisfaction in his voice and expression as he turns the water on and sets to cleaning his hands. "And then," he continues, and his expression has gone a little predatory as he looks back up at the mirror from beneath his eyelashes before scrubbing at his face. "Maybe we could make another mess." And even if he weren't currently trapped in a body that's positively soaked in a hormonal stew of lust and aggression he'd still want that right now, he thinks.
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"Back in the bed this time," he half suggests, half orders. "Where you can still smell me."
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"Yeah." He breathes in through his mouth, almost as if he could smell Jedao, taste him on the air right now. "That-" He catches his bottom lip with his teeth and braces his hands on the sink's edge again, breathing through the spike of want, remembering what it had been like to feel this way almost all the time. "That sounds good. And, uh... maybe cleaning up can wait?" he suggests hopefully, because it is Jedao's room and Jedao's floor and-
He stills, eyes narrowing in sudden concern as he looks at Jedao's reflection. "Are you... can you, uh... does this... do anything for you?" Or is he forcing his masturbatory fantasies onto Jedao when he has absolutely no outlet for them himself.
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"Fledge. Get your unfairly perfect ass back in my bed and give me another show."
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"Yessir." He doesn't get off on being ordered around, but it certainly doesn't bother him either, and he gives Jedao one last, longing look in the mirror before he turns and jogs out the door and to the bed... where he throws himself down face first without hesitation, burying his face in a pillow and breathing in deep as he rolls his hips against the rumbled bedding.
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"I want to bite you all over. Your calves and your shoulders and your ridiculous ass, hound preserve me. Just get a good mouthful and dig in a little."
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The most important point, though, is that he knows Jedao can see him, and Clark's been a very good teacher when it comes to the lesson of putting on the kind of show Jedao's demanded of him. So he spreads his feet a little wider, making sure to give Jedao a good view as he grinds against the sheet, letting Jedao's words shiver down his spine and fuel his want until he can feel the damp spot he's making in the sheets.
"Force, I want to feel you," he rasps, partially just gut-punched sincerity, but partly knowing that Jedao will want to hear it. "Want to feel your kriffing teeth on me, want to... want to pin you down and taste every part of you. Get your hands in my hair while I... while I suck you down."
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He hums, a low, deliberate, appreciative noise. "Your hands. Your big rough hands on my hips. Fuck, if I ever dream again, it'll probably be about your hands, I've thought about them so much. Would you tease me, sweetheart, like I teased you? Would you let me nudge you, coax you, teach you just how I like it? Or am I just hanging on to your hair in desperation while you swallow me down, while you take and taste everything you want until I'm screaming your name?"
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"Yes, Force," he groans, hands fisting in the sheets, glad for a moment that Jedao can't see his face as he struggles for breath, and anything like a coherent thought, at the idea of just taking what he wants, what he's wanted for so kriffing long. "Both... either... just... I just wanna make you go off like an ion cannon," he growls, abruptly shoving a hand down between himself and the sheets, curling it around his cock and squeezing. He doesn't want this to end as soon as it will if he doesn't slow himself down, kriffing hormones.
"What do you want," he asks after a moment spent panting into the pillow, breathing in their combined scents and making himself be... not still, but more restrained, more controlled as he slows his hips to a slower rock, muscles flexing in a sinuous ripple down his shoulders and back and ass and thighs with each movement. "It's your show, Jed'ika, what do you want to see?"
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"Fives. Fives, Fives, I can't think, you're so fucking beautiful. Get up on your knees for me - and tap the side of the bedframe, there's a pressure drawer, you deserve to be using actual nice lube, not that I wouldn't be happy to watch you lick your hand for, oh, I don't know, several months -"
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He shudders again, pushing up to his knees without question, legs splayed wide and cock hanging dark and heavy between his thighs. He's absolutely unselfconscious, arching his back for Jedao's benefit, giving himself a slow stroke and then squeezing tight at the base. "Your kriffing voice, ori'vod," he rasps, and his own accent is thicker as well, his voice rumbling deep in his chest.
He gives himself one more stroke, sliding his foreskin back, dragging his thumb over the head of his cock, then lets go and reaches to fumble for the pressure drawer. It only takes a moment before he's pulling the lube out, weight braced on his his other forearm and hips twisting restlessly, helplessly in the air, with nothing to push against for friction.
"Now what, ner'alor? What do you want me to... to do with it?" There is very little he wouldn't do right now if Jedao told him to.
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"Get your dick wet for me first, darling. Sloppy. Dripping. You're going to make a mess of my sheets anyway, aren't you? If I were there I'd put you on your back and pour it over you and stroke it into your skin, show you how good it could be, how smooth, how slick. But you'll do it for me. Stay where you are, get a good handful and really slather it on, so I can see it smear all over your belly when I get you hard enough, watch it trickle down your balls and your shaking thighs."
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He lets his head fall with a groan at Jedao's next words, and while there's a part of him that's keenly aware of the waste and the mess--that knows it's important to be quick and clean and quiet, to not waste scarce resources that are often contraband, and most importantly to leave no trace--he's far enough past that point now that instead of worry and fear it just gives him a transgressive thrill. "Yessir," he answers, because he thinks Jedao had liked that before, and he opens the container and squeezes a cool, dripping handful into his palm.
He spreads his knees wider, less thinking about Jedao's view and more about bracing himself as he reaches between his thighs. He didn't bother to warm it all, so it's shockingly cool as he wraps his hand around his cock smears the slick down, back arching and hips rocking into his own grip. He squeezes himself hard at the end of the down stroke, still worried about going off too soon, and his head drops almost back into the pillow as he works his hand back up, imagines Jedao behind him, watching... really behind him, jerking himself to hardness, getting ready to touch him.
"Fierfek," he gasps, hips shifting restlessly as he gives himself another stroke. There's slick dripping off his fingers and the end of his cock, mixing with precome and staining the sheets, just as Jedao ordered, and his skin feels too tight and hot and he can hardly think for want.
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There's a slow cadence to his voice, like pacing patiently back and forth. He makes noises of desperation, gasps and grunts and whines, can sigh or huff or laugh as an affectation, punctuation, expression of things he has no words for. But he never actually gets out of breath for more than the imaginary moment, always returns to an intoxicating smoothness, an inexorable demanding certainty.
"Slide your hand back a little - right there, behind your balls, feel how soft your skin is, rub that for me, gently, gently, you're so tense and it's gorgeous, but I'd drape all over you, nibble the back of your neck and just stroke you there until you were trembling underneath me and I could feel every quake, until you were so hungry for more you could barely breathe with it."
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"Elek," he answers, yes, and it comes out hoarse and strained. "Gedet'ye,." And please, and there's no mistaking the pleading tone to his voice even if Jedao didn't already know the words.
Fives could stay quiet, stay still, lock his voice down to something like the slow smoothness of Jedao's, but he doesn't have to, and he doesn't want to, and he doesn't even try. He lets every spike of arousal, every aching pulse of need come through in gasps and groans and sighs, in the way he shivers into his own touch, the way he arches as if he can feel Jedao's hands on him. He's letting himself feel, get completely caught up in the moment, and letting Jedao see it, and if anything it makes him even hornier.
His hand moves in time with Jedao's orders, sliding back, pausing for just a moment to tug at his balls and roll them before moving farther. Pressing gently at the smooth, taut skin behind them. Rubbing soft circles and shifting his hips with restless urgency. Letting his cock drag, heavy and hot and so kriffing slick, along his forearm as he moves. "Gedet'ye," he repeats, not even sure what he's asking, begging, for, just desperate for more.
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Which treads a little closely back towards the unfortunate and unerotic reality of Jedao's earlier reluctance - how could I ever say no to you is less evocative a hyperbole when they can both remember perfectly well all the times that he did. But he means it without quite saying it, that he wants desire between them always to be a matter of fulfillment more than torment - for the latter, however much they indulge it, to work only in service to the former.
"You like that idea, don't you? You're so good for me, Fives, go on, touch your pretty little hole, get it slick for me, stroke over the outside and then dip in just like I would if I could taste you, show me how you'd like it, exactly how you want me to eat you out."
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Even now his natural response is to be fast, efficient, maybe even a little brutal, and he has to consciously remind himself that Jedao wants slow. Wants a show. So he slides his fingers back, almost delicate, careful, and moans deep in his chest as he circles his hole with one thick, blunt finger. Strokes over the tight pucker of it. Gasps as he presses just a little, just enough to barely dip in. It helps that he doesn't really want it fast, doesn't want it to hurt, it's just that years of hard-learned habit and instinct aren't going to be over-written in a few months, maybe not even years.
So he tries to think how he'd actually want it, what he'd want to feel if Jedao were physically there, behind him. How he'd drag his tongue over him until he was sloppy wet, how he'd push in slowly, taking his time. He's mostly non-verbal, panting for breath as he slides his finger out again, circles his hole again, then pushes it back in, still slow but deeper this time. Past the first knuckle as he wills his body to relax, to accept the intrusion.
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"I'm with you, vod'ika," he promises, "It's me touching you, and I love it, you're feeling this because of me, because I want you to feel it and that's why it's happening, keep going, just like that."
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"Cyare," he murmurs, his free hand clenching tight in the sheets as he works his finger deeper, pulls and stretches with more gentleness and care than he generally bothers to afford himself in any context. "Cyar'ika." For all that he's spoken it his entire life, he's not sure if he could find any words in Standard right now even under threat.
Mando'a is both safety and comfort; the one thing their Kaminiise masters had paid no attention to, an inferior language of an inferior species that was completely beneath them. So he babbles his own endearments and and pleas and barely half-formed desires in the language he'll always think of as his native tongue as he works himself open enough to slide a second finger in with the first, to twist and stretch and open himself further.
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"Give yourself some more slick, dearheart, until you're glistening with it, that's it, you're perfect." He doesn't - quite - now - want to give more specific instructions, not when he gets to see Fives making it good for himself, when he gets to see and remember every curl of his fingers, every careful proceeding press. But he doubts whether it would occur to Fives that he might be allowed to use more, without both reminder and permission.
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