ninefox | anchorage

Fives arches his back and rocks down again, digging his toes into the mattress for leverage and shuddering at the almost too light friction. He can smell Jedao in the pillow he'd been using, can almost convince himself that he can still feel the residual warmth of his body in the sheets.

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."

One of the eyes glows, dimly, next to Fives' face on the pillow; more of the shadow must be falling over his back.

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?"

Edited 2017-08-26 05:13 (UTC)

Fives can see the glowing eye out of the corner of his own, and it raises goosebumps along his skin to know it has to be laid out across his back, touching him even if neither of them can feel it. It's that voice that's wrecking him, though, low and warm and perfect, and filling up almost every corner of his awareness with images and ideas.

"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?"

There's a pause, distracted, and then a rush of syllables, a low mishmash of dipthongs and consonant clusters, like a gurgling stream and tumbling rocks, that matches, somehow, an intensified version of the tones and cadence of his drawl.

"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 -"

Fives doesn't have a clue what the words mean, but he reacts to them like fingers sliding down his spine, arching up with a shuddering gasp, like he's pressing into a touch. He wants to hear more of it, warm and musical, wants to know what Jedao's saying... though he can make something of an educated guess. And then he's speaking Standard again, his drawl thicker than ever, and Fives would give almost anything to taste the words on his lips.

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.

He laughs, softly, less amusement than sheer delight, the simple pleasure of watching Fives move, hearing his voice change as he grunts and writhes, knowing how much Jedao can effect him, how hungry and willing he is, for all that Jedao intends to start simple, or as simple as taking the instructions of a possessive, obsessive, lecherous ghost could be.

"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."

Edited 2017-08-27 01:41 (UTC)

Force, Fives loves that laugh, the way it slides down his spine like fingers. Loves that there's not a fraction of a second where he worries that it's mocking rather than appreciative.

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.

"I don't know that I'm going to be able to tease you like this again," he muses, the words themselves tempered only by their low, unmistakable warmth. "I tried so hard not to touch you, and I'm never going to manage it ever again, I don't even remember how I resisted in the first place. How could I look at you and not get my hands on you? I need it. I need to hold you open, get my tongue inside you, feel you clench up and then shudder and relax, let me in, let me do anything, just like you are now."

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."

"Kriffing waste of time," he rasps, but it trails off on a whine as Jedao continues, as Fives imagines Jedao's mouth on him, his tongue in him.
"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.

"You don't have to beg me," Jedao murmurs, his voice gone soft and ruinously tender, sleek as silk. He laughs, again, a rueful chuckle - "You may, of course, if you like. But you only have to ask."

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."

He hadn't quite registered that was what he was asking, but the second Jedao gives permission he shudders with relief and anticipation. He's good with topping, bottoming, blowjobs, anything, but right now he wants this, and he's grateful to Jedao for being able to interpret and articulate it when he hadn't been able to for himself. And right now there's no part of him that's remembering all the time's Jedao has put him off anymore, that's anything other than completely lost in the moment. Listening to his voice, imagining his touch. Though he huffs a strained laugh at pretty, at the idea of applying that word to any part of himself, but there's something in the way Jedao says it that makes him like it. Makes him believe he means it.

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.

He dips back into Shparoi for a little while, strings together all the endearments he can remember. They'd all be completely nonsensical if he tried to translate them literally, crocus blossom and square melon and little tree frog, but he says them anyway, rambles again about how beautiful Fives is in his oldest language, drags out the syllables to match the rhythm of Fives carefully starting to stretch himself.

"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."

Edited 2017-08-27 09:22 (UTC)

Fives is going to need to ask Jedao to teach him his language, because he wants to understand what all those almost liquid trills mean, wants to understand every word Jedao breathes or gasps or growls. But for now he arches and shudders in response to the simple sound of it, and his profound awareness of Jedao's focused but incorporeal regard.

"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.

"Ner'vod, ner'cyare, ner'kart'ta," he croons back in the same tongue as if he could stake his claim that way, know Fives from the inside out and instincts up, could protect him by using only the words of brothers, the words Fives chose. His dapple-bright unblinking eyes shift and roam over Fives, the bed, the floor, unable to keep entirely still, all nine of them devouring the blissed-out expression in Fives' face, the sweetly bowed curve of his back, the hypnotic movement of his fingers.

"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.

Those words in his own language, with all the weight of meaning behind them, hit him low and hard. They leave him breathless and a little shaky, and he has to pause for a moment, to just breathe through the wave of wantneedloveawe that washes over him.

Jedao is right in thinking it would never occur to Fives to use more lube, that he could be so profligate with it, make that much of a mess, but he follows Jedao's instructions without hesitation when he recovers himself enough to move. Squeezes another glistening handful into his palm... and dares to give his cock a quick stroke as he slides his hand back again.

There's enough slick he's dripping with it now, running over the tender skin of his perineum and slipping down his balls. Pooling on the sheet beneath him, along with a steady stream of pre-come. He slides two fingers back in easily, groaning with the stretch of it, imagining Jedao behind him, watching. It's easy enough that he slips a third in as well, shuddering and arching at the burn and ache of it, wishing it was Jedao's fingers, or Jedao's cock.

"Come... please," he rasps, having to strain for the words even in Mando'a, gasping them out as he works his fingers deeper and his hips twist. "Where I can... can see you." Jedao's shadow might not be him, but it's a strong enough, solid enough association that it's a comfort.

The shadow moves impossibly swiftly, suddenly cast directly beneath Fives instead of around him, as if the lights were overhead instead of diffuse. The mess of the sheets darkens with his presence, and the eyes waver and cluster and glow back up at him, sometimes passing over Fives' other hand where he's braced against the bed, rippling over the ridges of his metacarpal bones, shining on his skin.

"I'm with you, vod'ika, I'm right here with you, watching you, fucking you, loving you, and I'm never going to stop."

Fives whines at the speed with which the shadow appears beneath him, glowing golden eyes looking, unblinking, up at him, and he lets his arm collapse without really planning it. Rests his weight on his forearm instead of his hand and lets his forehead drop to press against one of the tails. There's nothing to feel, but Jedao's scent lingers in the bedding, and he can blink his eyes open and see one burning golden eye directly beneath him, and it's... it's as close to perfect as he's going to get right now.

He curls his fingers, finds the right spot, and arches with a choked cry at the sudden hot twist of pleasure, the way it sparks along his nerves and tenses his muscles. Makes his balls go tight and his cock pull up almost impossibly high against his belly. "What... now, cyare?" he grinds out, still in Mando'a, because he doesn't want to get this wrong, wants Jedao to get what he's looking for out of it. Before Jedao can answer he shudders and arches again, whining low in his throat as he drags crooked fingers over his prostate once more.

"You're so close, aren't you?" he murmurs in the same tongue, slow relish permeating every word. Usually, when he speaks Mando'a, he's careful to match Fives' pronunciation precisely, but now he lets his drawl seep through, a vertiginously different effect when threaded through an entirely different sounding language.

"Go for it, darling, I want that, I want to see your whole body strained to the breaking point and your face when you go off, your juicy cock pumping like a dire cannon and your needy hole clutching tight, make it happen for me, whatever you need, whatever you want, just take it -"

Edited 2017-08-28 05:05 (UTC)

"'lek... elek, Jed'ika," he gasps in answer, with a whole body shiver at the sound of the Mando'a rolling off Jedao's tongue with that same almost liquid lilt to it. He twists and drags his fingers again, shudders again, groans and rubs his face restlessly over the sheets, breathing in Jedao's scent, keeping his eyes cracked so he can see the ninfox watching him.

He's not going to be able to finish this way, he knows that much; so kriffing close but not able to quite tip over that edge. So he drops his shoulder to the bed, taking his weight off his forearm and freeing his hand. It's awkward as hell, yes, but it lets him reach down and get his hand around himself without having to pull his fingers free. Let's him slide back his foreskin and drag a thumb across the head of his cock, smearing slick and precome around, then drag it under the flared head, shuddering at the sensation.

And then he properly applies himself, because he wants this, he wants it to be kriffing spectacular for Jedao. So he gets a good grip and starts to stroke, matches the rhythm with his other hand and every third stroke he makes sure to hit that spot, to send sparks dancing along his nerves in the best possible way. "Keep... talking... beloved," he asks, even his Mando slurring with his accent now. "Please." He's so close, all he needs now is Jedao's voice.

"Cyar'kar'ta," he murmurs, and maybe it's an awkward construction but it's the closest he can get to dearheart. "Mine, my Fives, you marvelous, perfect creature, I'm going to touch you everywhere, there isn't an inch of you that isn't fucking ravishing, you're shining with sweat, I can see the glint from my eyes on your skin. I want to squirm all over your back, I want to tug your balls and get my tongue in your belly button and scratch up your hipbones. I want to nibble your ankles and your collarbones and your earlobes, and suck all your fingertips, one by one. I want to kiss you for days and I want to get my dick on your chest and fuck you between your perfect pecs. I want you to hold me down, one of your broad hands on my wrists and the other touching every where you want, the weight of you pressing into me everywhere, nothing but strength and hunger and salt and skin, Fives, I'm crazy for you, everything about you, you're mine and I'm never letting you go -"

Fives has never thought of himself as unattractive; he knows he's strong, well-built... symmetrical, but he's never thought of himself as beautiful in the way Jedao is describing, and he's really only almost sure of what ravishing means because of context. But Force, the things he's saying, the things he wants to do-

Fives whines, high in his throat, and he can't manage to keep his eyes as that voice wraps around him almost like a touch, gliding over his skin and shuddering along his nerves. He can feel heat coiling tight in his belly, his balls pulling up as he rocks frantically, jerkily, between one hand and the other, between his fingers and his fist.

"Jed'ika... cyar'ika... ner kar'ta," he manages to gasp, and then the tension breaks, like a spring, drawn too tight, releasing with a snap as he shudders and arches, pulling his fingers free so he can brace himself better as he comes in hot, thick pulses over his hand and his belly and the bed, and behind his eyelids all he can see is Jedao's face, those dark eyes and that wicked smile from the mirror.

Fives wanted to give him a spectacle, and he succeeded: Jedao is surprised, repeatedly, that his words don't trip, that his mouth isn't dry. The light on his skin, the curve of his spine, the slick indulgent mess as he brings himself off and the sheer exquisite look on his face when he finally lets go, all of it is perfect, is stunning. Jedao is stunned.

He doesn't stop talking, but his voice shifts into a different register after Fives climaxes, slower as Fives' breathing slows, softer as the trembling in his muscles turns over from taut tension to boneless exhaustion.

"Fives, vod'ika, ner'cyare. I love the noises you make, I love your breathing - sometimes when I can't sleep I just listen to you breathe. That's my favorite part of sleeping tangled up on top of you, that I can always feel you with me, quiet and steady. I feel so safe with you, safe from things I can't even describe because they've been there as long as I can remember, like trying to explain sunlight if I'd only ever lived on stations. I'm not alone with you, Fives, even with the people I loved, before, I was so alone. There's no one I trust like you, there's no one I need like you. I didn't know I could feel like this about anyone. I didn't imagine I could be this happy, just to have you next to me."

He did love Ruo; he believes that, he knows that. But they were children, and it was a child's love, bright and pure and simple. Not easy - but simple. He loved Gized with his whole rotten heart, but he could never trust her. He isn't sane, isn't magically someone new, but sometimes it almost feels like it.

Edited 2017-08-30 06:12 (UTC)

It takes him a few long beats, just braced there on both forearms now, skin sweat-slick and eyes still closed, muscles tremoring slightly, before he's recovered enough to even think of moving. But while he waits, while he slows his ragged breathing and calms his racing heart, Jedao's voice is still there. Warm. Soothing. Safe. Beloved.

"Mine," he almost whispers when he's finally got enough breath back for it. "My ori'vod. My cyare." He shudders once more, draws in a stuttering breath, and pushes himself over to roll onto his side and then his back. He's an absolute mess; covered in sweat and come, his usually tidy hair a mess, even his goatee looking slightly mussed. And his eyes are still closed as he reaches to wipe his come-covered hand on a patch of sheet past the true disaster where he'd knelt.

He finally opens his eyes, still dark pools surrounded by a barely there ring of gold, blinks a couple times, then focuses on those unblinking golden eyes again. He looks a little dazed, still, fucked out and blissed out, and his lips twitch into a warm, slow smile. "Mine, Jed'ika," he repeats. "Never leave you alone."

He's still beautiful; he's always beautiful; he's so beautiful like this, loose-limbed and smiling and wrecked. Jedao could watch him like this for years and not get tired of it.

"Yours," he echoes, and it hurts in a chest he doesn't have, hurts like sensation coming back after too long in the cold. I'm your gun, he said, over and over, hated it and wanted to mean it all at once. Didn't need it - but wanted, in some quiet desperate place.

He isn't Fives' gun. I'm your fucking general, he remembers snarling, and he feels warm all through, like an edgeless patch of air flooded with afternoon sun.

"Yours, Fives, always."

His smile stretches a little wider at the echo, the acknowledgment. He's not possessive, not in the way of normal people--he's never even had personal property, the idea that some person should ever be his alone is alien and somewhat offensive, if he thought it through--but Jedao is definitely his. His to love, and protect, and obey when appropriate, none of which assumes any kind of exclusivity. It's... an obligation and a privilege, not a chain.

"I think... I need to sleep soon," he murmurs. "Wish I could do it with you curled up against me." He should clean up first, himself again, the floor probably, the bed. But he feels ridiculously languid and satisfied, like moving is entirely too much to ask. "Do you want me to turn on music, or... or a video, before I do? You can't read, can you?" He frowns, slightly more alert as he thinks it through. "Couldn't advance the pages." He wonders if there's some way to fix that. "Unless we could set it to automatically advance at a pre-determined speed...."

anchorage

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