[ He calls Claude up about an hour before the Festival is set to kick off. He's in his Jedi tunics, sans cloak, seated by the small desk in the room they've rented for the purpose of today's plan. He's got a bemused frown on his face. Between his hands, he holds a piece of sky blue cloth, the fabric precisely the same blue as his eyes. ]
So. [ He holds up the cloth. ] There's really no other way, right? You aren't just playing around.
[ There might be a slight pleading note to his voice. This isn't - he's fairly certain some of Padmé's night gowns are made of twice the amount of fabric! It's not that he's vain, necessarily, he just isn't used to showing... skin. His legs are going to be all over the kriffing place. Not to mention his - how's he even gonna carry his lightsaber? ]
[ Claude is in his own chambers, getting ready for the festival when the call goes through. Nodding at the girl who's been helping him fix up his ceremonial loincloth, longer and heavier than his usual ones, and a deep shade of red, he sees her out before taking it, leaning in slightly on his elbows and raising both eyebrows with an openly entertained expression as the Jedi holds up his uniform for the day.
Claude has chosen it himself, after all. Fits his eyes. ]
The Festival of Masks is a day of finding others not by the features that are most familiar to us - [ He taps his own cheek softly to indicate his face. ] - but by the parts that make up the whole person. It's symbolic.
[ A headshake, his voice going lighter, more teasing. A slight smile. ]
While I'm sure you'll stand out regardless, Skywalker, the mask offers some anonymity.
[ Claude's... dressed, or not, ugh - for the occasion, lacking only his mask. His bare chest seems to stand out even more today, like the contrast between his skin and the deep red of his loincloth make all of it look that much more... more. Anakin swallows, aware that he's being teased and not too sure what to feel about it.
His body's definitely not opposed but considering the length of the loincloth he's been given, he hardly thinks there's any room for further deliberation on that point. Actually, he can attest that there'll be no room whatsoever. Shifting, he leans back a little and sighs. ]
You realise I'll have to carry my lightsaber beneath the loincloth. As in, right next to - [ Pause. He trails off, his cheeks heating up very slightly. ] - my - anyway. Basic lightsaber safety rules. This one comes with some pretty gnarly anecdotes.
[ He winces at the thought, shifting in his seat. ]
[ Sympathetic wincing for a second, Claude feeling that any considerations on Skywalker's cock should not in any capacity feature his lightsaber, too. As it is, he really likes the slight deepening of the colour to the other man's cheeks, though, taking the edge off the whole - gnarliness of the implied risks of the loincloth.
Yeah, Claude's going to say that reaction makes all the rest worth it. ]
I'm not sure I want to imagine, and yet here we are. [ He tilts his head, smiling. ] But I have faith in your ability not to lose a limb today, you know.
[ His tone is open, honest. He doesn't add that maybe he'd need it later, after all; Claude knows about boundaries, knows about respect. And he respects Skywalker even more than he wants him which says a great deal at this point. ]
[ It's late and the Coruscanti nightlife is thriving. Anakin enters the club of his choice, a fairly average place visited mostly by those upper-level citizens who aren't necessarily in any position to get exclusive about their drinking habits. He's nowhere near presentable, the splashes of motor oil along his trouser legs and shirt clashing with the flickering neonlights. He's got scratches along his cheekbone and over the bridge of his nose but no other injuries worth of note which speaks volumes of his luck tonight.
He crashed his speeder bike, sure, but at least it crashed mostly without him.
These days, his life seems to be one, long stretch of the same, monotenous emptiness. He's been confined to the Temple for a month, following the mess on Claude's homeworld, Paris. A mess he certainly didn't create, mind, but of course he gets blamed for doing the right thing under the circumstances. No matter how much he's insisted that the war was inevitable, that Claude would have been killed to keep the corrupt leaders in power otherwise, he's still being punished. And being still on a break (and honestly, he's starting to think it's not a break at all), he can't even while away the hours with Padmé which feels highly unfair - he's finally home and then, there's nothing for him? No one. Just him.
Ahsoka's gone. Obi-Wan isn't, but Anakin doesn't particularly want to hang out with him.
So he races and he crashes and now, he's getting a glass of water for what little credits he's managed to make, regardless. He seats himself by the bar, anonymous, people leaving him alone, minding their own business. He slumps a little, feeling strangely defeated. ]
[ After tearing down a corrupt rule, watching his planet erupt in a minor civil war, handing power over to the rebel leader, Marc-Antoine and finally writing himself out of national archives for the time being, Claude is here. Coruscant. In many ways a place that works under the same problematic dogmas that Paris did, does, it'll take generations to restore justice there, but in even more ways completely different, completely new. For one, he isn't a prince any longer. For two, he's fully dressed.
Strangely enough, wearing trousers has been the most difficult acclimatization process of them all.
The title? He's glad to be without, kriff. He knows the new government will call on him eventually, there's been talk of changing their current senator for someone more willing to push for neutrality, but it's all in the works. Nothing's final. Nothing's there. Really, Claude feels like his entire life has been one long wait for something to settle the right way.
Tonight, he's decided to hit one of the bars on his way home from the small private collection of holobooks where he currently conducts his studies. His apartment in the upper-levels is bought for government grants, because he has turned down all royal appanages. They're the people's money, he'd said to the sound of loud cheering.
His planet has been thirsting. Well, tonight he's the thirsty one.
The bar is not high-class, but it's what you can afford when you live off other people's goodwill and what he can earn by assisting in academic projects here and there. He isn't by any means poor. He's simply adjusting from being dirty rich. Passing along the bar, he notices a tall, lanky-type man sitting hunched over a glass of water. Then, he stops. Turns. Walks over to the stool next to his, without seating himself, since he hasn't been invited. Claude isn't presumptuous, after all. ]
I think I just found you by your whole person, Skywalker.
[ No need for masks. No need for bare chests either. ]
[ Anakin will, if pressed (if there'd been anyone around to press him), admit that he's wallowing a bit. That maybe, just maybe, he should remember what his mom used to say and pull himself together to face another day, the way you do when you're glad to be alive, to have another chance, another rotation. Naturally, dwelling on his mother, however, takes him nowhere constructive and as a consequence, he's on the verge of beating his forehead against the counter in frustration at the depressive circularity of his own mood when he senses someone familiar approaching, the Force whispering look up, for once not in warning but in shivering expectation.
He blinks. Looks up, straightening a little.
In front of him, Claude stops by the stool next to his.
Anakin stares at this sudden manifestation of an actual, living, breathing person who might actually be a friend - then, finding his footing, he quickly nods at the chair in invitation and sits up straighter yet, brushing his dirty trousers down on instinct. Claude looks casual but good. Comfortable (and... nice. He looks nice). Anakin, meanwhile, has to swipe his bangs out of his face where the hair's sticking to him from sweat and dried motor oil. ]
So you did.
[ He tries to remember what he's heard of Claude since they kick-started the revolution in his homeworld. It isn't much. The Jedi Temple is a fairly closed-off world, particularly when you're kriffing grounded. ]
I see you got tired of a world without bureaucracy. [ A smile. ] Welcome to Coruscant.
[ Skywalker, Anakin - can they be on first name basis now? - looks like someone dumped him in an engine and gave him a good grinding among the gears, from the scratches down his cheek to the stains on his clothes. Not Jedi robes, though. Civilian. Undercover? Misbehaving? With him, Claude thinks, you better not guess, you better ask. Slowly, he seats himself on the stool at Anakin's invitation and has to right his seating a bit to accommodate all the stupid fabric around his legs. Finally finding a comfortable position, Claude turns towards the other man slightly, cocking his head, meeting his eyes, his smile. Welcome to Coruscant, he says, meaning - where bureaucracy was born. Multiple people have told Claude the same thing after he got here, but in differing wordings, subtle warnings. Anakin's words are a tease. Claude likes that. ]
Figured I should aim higher this time. Are you going to help me start a revolution here as well?
[ There's no note of expectation in it. Claude knows he isn't sitting before his designated weapon of choice, to be pulled out when you need things to move and to move fast. Evidently, Anakin is good for that kind of stuff, but he has his own aspirations, no doubt. Hopes, dreams. His own stories. Claude remembers. Ask me again.
This was meant as a good-natured joke in return.
He gestures at the bartender as they move past them, holding up two fingers, leaving the decision as to what they're getting up to their discretion. It'll probably be strong and expensive, then. Exactly what they need. Attention back at the Jedi - who doesn't look altogether Jedi-like tonight. ]
You look like you already fought one, though. [ And because he wants it to be clear, between them. ] If you ask me, you should fight more.
[ They've put him in a penthouse which is against his principles, but you try reasoning with three old Parisian men who want Claude's "Coruscant situation" to reflect back on them well. Meaning, it has to be expensive and look even more expensive than it really is. It has to smell like power and the view got to put the rest of the planet to shame. That's why he's in this particular apartment and not something closer to the ground levels, something more modest, something more on level with what he actually believes in.
When he'd shown Anakin inside, he'd felt the need to explain all of this to him, but realised that in itself was his own foolish pride talking, so he hadn't. He'd shrugged out of his coat and showed the other man to the bathroom, giving him free access to all the soaps and shampoos and oils and what else he'd brought from back home upon leaving. The Parisian Paceen Nut oil is nice, he'd told him as a parting note. Good for wound care. Tapping the bridge of his own nose to indicate Anakin's scrapes, he had smiled and left him to it.
Meanwhile, he's making the sofa bed in the living room with the great panoramic view of the skyline, his study on the other side of the partition dark and quiet for once. Otherwise, it's the most used part of the whole place. He all but lives in there. Long nights, too. Long, mostly lonely nights. The sofa bed is broad and big enough for two, easily, trust him, he's tried. Sure, he might as well have invited Anakin to sleep in his own, except the lack of boundaries... No, Claude prefers it this way, equal and even. No pressure. He straightens up and looks down at the clean linen, the duvet, pillow.
If Anakin has been a slave before, Claude doesn't want to be the one who expects something from him that isn't his to take, but only Anakins' to give. In a willingly and informed manner.
[ He's left his dirty clothes folded away as practically as he can be bothered, trying to avoid crumbling them even further - back at the Temple, he would've dropped them for washing but in this case, he'll be wearing them tomorrow again, sneaking back inside in daytime which, well, it's not like he hasn't done that before (consequently, he knows which passages to pick) but it doesn't hurt to think ahead. A little. It's not... exactly something he's famous for.
In any case, he's now drying off from the shower, his skin still warm and damp, his hair long enough to come past his shoulders when it's wet - it's not practical but it's untraditional and Obi-Wan hates it so Anakin has kept it long, maintained the provocation of it. Finishing up, he considers his discarded under-tunics; they aren't ideal for sleeping, particularly not for sleeping with anyone. Sure, they will do in a pinch but they truly aren't in any way whatsoever sexy. Naturally, he can't presume that they'll be - that he and Claude will actually get that far tonight but surely, if he wears ugly, dirty under-clothes, the chances become immediately abysmal. He nods to himself and ties the towel around his hips, holding it in place with his metal fingers. There. He can - that's fine. Yes. It'll... do. He can smell that Paceen Nut oil very clearly on his skin and he feels smoother than usual, softer.
Everything is softer, really, inside and out.
Breathing out slowly, steeling himself, he leaves the fresher behind, dropping his pile of clothes on the nearest chair he finds on his way to the living room. His lightsaber is tucked away amongst them, easily available in case but not so easily discovered. Entering the living room, he pauses at the sight of Coruscant, stretching out beyond the windows. This high up, the sky looks vast, dwarfing the cityscape, the billons of lights from below reflected against the darkness further up. He looks at that, then at Claude who's made up the sofa bed. Claude, who wanted to take him home tonight. Claude, who understands.
Heart beating faster, he takes another deep breath and walks over to him, keeping the towel stretched tightly around his hips and thighs. ]
[ Like summoned, Anakin appears at that very moment, Claude turning towards him, not exactly surprised to see him dressed down to just a towel around his waist, but neither has he expected it. You don't expect stuff like that, you take what you're given and you play the happy recipient, no matter what it is. Unless it's nasty, in which case, you wash your kriffing hands off it as quickly as possible.
It's not a fine line. Yet, the distinction isn't always easy to make.
One thing is Rainier, this - yeah, this is something else.
He smiles, letting his eyes slowly run down over Anakin's upper body, the breadth of it, broad shoulders, mechno arm fully bared along with flat plains of chest and stomach. Dip of hipbone. Slim legs. What could as well be a loincloth in the middle, making Claude remember the mission on Paris. Anakin dashing from side to side to catch the assassin in the tightly packed Parisian crowd, wearing nothing but the sky blue loincloth Claude had got for him. That, and his lightsaber with which he'd managed not to cut off anything essential, you got to presume.
One eyebrow going up, he looks up at the other man's face. His expression is light-hearted, some easy amusement. Not at Anakin, but with him. It's for sharing. Gesturing vaguely at the middle of the man, he says: ]
No lightsabers hidden beneath there this time?
[ It might be a dick joke, it might not. It might also be a benign reference to a story they share, something they already hold in common, dicks and beds aside. Claude likes the openness of it, chose the question because it doesn't beg only one kind of answer.
He wouldn't ask had it been any different.
Meeting Anakin's eyes, the brightest, clearest blue he's ever seen, a rarity on Paris, he cocks his head a little, chin angled upwards enough to hold that sense of connection. It's like a role reversal. This time Claude is the one in full uniform and Anakin in the nude. Almost. In some ways, entirely. ]
[ Claude turns towards him and like that, he stands with his back partially against the cityscape, his shoulder and the length of his torso illuminated, the echoes of lights leaving him glowing a faint silver. He's beautiful, Anakin thinks, and not just because he is, because he's pleasing to the eye and objectively pretty but also because he's here, taking up space on Coruscant, in Anakin's home and within his heart, too, if he's honest. Concerning his heart, Anakin always is.
He quirks an eyebrow at Claude's question, shifting a little and watching him from across the small distance. It's funny, how Claude seems both natural and at odds with his surroundings - it's not like Padmé, who'll never not be a Queen, no matter where she stands in the political sphere. Claude looks like he knows about the riches around him but Anakin has no trouble imagining him in a hut somewhere far beyond the glamour of the Core Worlds, dusty and dirty, carrying that same look on his face, the same quiet strength in his stance, not on the way back to what he knows but moving forward, towards whatever he's seeing in the distance, the vision he's shared with Anakin in bits and pieces whenever they've talked. He transcends.
And no matter where they'd be at this time, he'd still be equal parts careful and gentle and sharp underneath it all, sharp enough to tear down worlds if he wanted to, if he had the tools and the means. The hands.
The next step isn't difficult, he finds. It could have been but it isn't.
[ Anakin has never been the type to sleep in. Before he became a Jedi, obviously he'd risen with his mother at the dawn of the workday and then, later, he'd been plagued by nightmares too regularly to establish a solid sleeping pattern. Ironically, perhaps, he sleeps better when he's in a warzone than anywhere else. It's probably something about habituation or whatever fancy word Obi-Wan would pull out of his ridiculous vocabulary and Anakin is sure it's all very wise but to him, there are facts, first of all: if he can't sleep, he gets up and if he gets up, he might as well keep himself busy.
Today is no exception, even if he woke up warm and heavy from a whole night's worth of incredible sex. He can still feel that tell-tale laziness of it, of multiple orgasms and the foreign sensation of being sated - though his mind can't abide by it, his body would honestly like to just sleep forever. Wrapped up around Claude, if at all possible·
As it is, he's been to the market, using what little credits he managed to win on yesterday's racing. He's scrounged up a handful of traditional Tatooine ingredients because he's felt like it, because he can. He hasn't, for... a long time. Long. Back in Claude's kitchen, with Claude still asleep in the bedroom down the hall, he's laid them all out on the cutting board. Fresh herbs. A neutral oil, rich in texture, some whole-grain flour that's a case of close enough, if not quite right. And of course, dried Zbi. He makes breakfast with the dim morning light streaming in through the kitchen windows, catching in the sleek table top and re-bounding against his mechno-hand while he works. He prepares a simple plate of flatbread, a mix of oil and ground-up honey-flowers for dipping and bowls of porridge, sprinkled with sugar and small bits of sweetened desert plums. Lastly, he fixes up two mugs of steaming Zbi, a milky beverage full of spices, warm and a little sharp around the edges, a little harder to swallow than you might expect.
With that, he makes his way to the bedroom, balancing everything on the tray with an ease that feels very situational, like his hands couldn't shake even if he wanted them to. It does, very briefly, cross his mind that Claude might not like the food at all - it is, after all, something very different from what he's probably used to. But then, perhaps he won't mind.
[ He wakes up alone. There's a brief, chilling moment where he just feels the emptiness of the bed (because they moved from the sofa in the living room to the bedroom throughout the night, probably between their fourth and fifth time doing it), then the faint noises of someone moving around in the kitchen register with him and Claude blinks himself to some level of consciousness, staring up at the ceiling, bathed in the early morning night in thin stripes where the curtains allow it in.
Up here, you almost can't hear the beating heart of Coruscant. Which fits with the scents starting to waft in from the kitchen soon enough, because that's not the smell of Coruscanti cuisine. Not the smell of anything he's ever really encountered before and Claude knows the galaxy is vast, he's met people from across it, in his position as Prince of Paris.
Yet, this is new. This is new, all of it. The scents, the feelings. The overwhelming relief at not having been abandoned in the early morning hours.
Once he hears the clinking of cutlery and cups, metal tray, steps against the floors, he pushes the duvet down around his waist and sits up, hair a mess around his head, his vision blurry. Anakin, moving from the doorway to the bed, is back in the clothes he arrived in and Claude honestly feels a little bereft, he remembers his chest, he remembers his thighs, the flat expanses of stomach. Lower. Yeah, he remembers that, too. Running a hand through his hair, messing it up even further, it dawns on him - along with the morning light - that Anakin has made him food.
Something tightens in his chest. ]
You felt like cooking me breakfast? [ Reaching out and patting the mattress next to him, the cooling spot that Anakin must have left earlier, while he was still snoozing, he follows him with his eyes. ] It smells delicious. Where did you get all this?
[ It's deliberate, the way he doesn't say, where is it from or where did you learn about it? He's giving Anakin a way out, if he doesn't want to talk about it yet, he can just say the market. Everything's from the market, in the end.
[ Claude sits up in bed, sporting the most adorable case of bedhead that Anakin has ever seen. He looks a little sleepy still and Anakin can feel the soft warmth of his skin just by looking at him. He gives the other man a small smile and puts the tray down in Claude's lap carefully before divesting himself of his crappy shirt and trousers. Without a change of clothes, he's been forced to get back in his racing get-up and he's more than happy to be rid of it again, now that he's out of the kitchen. ]
The market, a few streets away.
[ He hears Claude's unspoken question, of course, but it takes him a few seconds to gather himself enough to actually answer it properly. Naked once more (and showered, as it were, meaning the contrasts allow him to smell the remnants of their night together very clearly on Claude's skin, on the sheets and oh, he likes that), he slips into bed next to Claude and pulls the tray a little to the side, enough for it to rest between them, balanced on their thighs.
He picks up his own mug. Looks into the brown, almost reddish swirl of liquid inside and swallows. ]
There's a vendor, there, who sometimes happens to pick up Outer Rim goods. He bargains them off at a low price, obviously, because... well. [ A shrug. ] Fancy stuff for fancy people, I guess. But they were cheap so I'm not complaining.
[ He sips his Zbi. It stings a little on his tongue. ]
I'm from Tatooine, you see, and these are all pretty regular breakfast items there.
[ There you have it. As the words leave Anakin's mouth, Tatooine, Outer Rim, another whole reality, there, Claude just listens quietly and looks the tray over that has been placed in the middle between them, like something they are holding together and share. He shifts a little to counteract the weight of it, pulling his legs up beneath him and crossing them carefully, not to upset the arrangement of foods. His hands move over the display on the tray for a second, trying to decide on what to do first, get first, taste first. This is Anakin giving him something of himself, you got to digest it at the right time, in the right order. With the right amount of gratitude, right? Looking up at the other man through his bangs, Claude finally decides to do as the native, taking the cup with a hot liquid that doesn't smell like tea and looks lighter than Caf, though not necessarily any less strong. He sniffs it with a focused frown, taking in the spicy scent of it. It tickles his nose, but is also warm and -- yeah, strong. Invigorating.
He holds the cup for a moment, just feeling the heat of it between this fingers. ]
It's got a zing to it, huh? [ A sip. It's a whole new world smacking him in the face, tastes red and sandy and sunny, but not sunny like his own home planet, sunny like kriffing star systems. His eyes widen slightly while he lets the impressions hit, pass, another sip, slightly bigger. ] Tastes strong, but strong isn't even the word. We don't have anything that generates that kind of bodily excitement on Paris. More like Caf.
[ A pause, the cup weighing in the silence, present and round. Claude looks at Anakin for a long moment, licking his lips - tasting like a different kind of life on the tip of his tongue, before saying gently: ]
[ Before leaving, the morning after their first night together, Anakin had provided him with the name of his secure line inside the Jedi Temple, Claude promising to keep in touch. It's been four days now and while his fingers have itched to contact the other man several times, he's been busy enough that the rotations have passed almost unnoticeably regardless. The only one that really noticed the distinct lack of Anakin Skywalker in Claude's daily routines was his cock. Kriff, it missed the taste of Zbi and the taste of cum. It missed those things badly, the person they came in extension of.
So, now, late into the afternoon, work cut short by the President's call on him to assure that elections would open before the week is out, Claude is sitting on his bed, where Anakin had fed him his Tatooine breakfast, in front of his transmitter in only a pair of loose trousers, the bare-chestedness so natural to him that he generally undresses as soon as he returns home. Anything else feels constricting.
Even if he has left the loincloths behind on Paris. ]
Hey. [ He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees. ] Good to be reminded what you look like clothed, Anakin.
[ It's been four very, very, very long days. Only hours after returning to the Temple following his night with Claude, he'd been put on archive duty - not just any kind of duty, either, no. Nothing so ordinary for Anakin Skywalker, thanks, no, he's been bestowed the grand honour of working alongside Jocasta Nu, sorting through texts and books, counting and stacking everything in the history section for the yearly clean-out and his brain, he's pretty sure, is going to seep out of his ears before the week is out. He hates it. He hates it. Everything looks the same, the books, the texts, the letters, the millions of dust bunnies, everything might as well... be... the same - and when his comm chimes, he's more than happy to excuse himself for a break. He doesn't even notice that it's Claude, calling, before he's back in his room - he would have honestly taken anyone, a misplaced call from a guy named Frank, anything.
He settles cross-legged on his bed and, finally, reads the caller ID. Then, he busts into a smile and turns it on, incredibly happy to be treated not just to an image of Claude, but half-naked Claude with his pretty curls and his warm, brown eyes, and Anakin's tasted every inch of skin on that chest, oh. ]
I'm the lucky one, aren't I? [ A quirked eyebrow and a nod in Claude's general direction. You, it means. You're beautiful. ] Thanks for brightening my day, I definitely needed it.
[ The quirked eyebrow and the way Anakin looks at him, you're beautiful, it means, makes Claude's small smile widen considerably and he feels kinda dumb, sitting alone in his bedroom and his chest's warm, his belly, his skin prickling, just letting his eyes run down Anakin's shape. He hasn't felt like this for a very, very long time. Like he's a budding youth. Like he isn't two steps and a poll from being senator of Paris. Kriff.
Then, the second part of the sentence registers and he tilts his head to one side, curls bouncing all over the place. He's been thinking about Anakin the past four days, not just naked and writhing and moaning, but Anakin - in the Jedi Temple, doing who knows what they really do in there except going to war, keeping the peace, constricted to a life and an environment that honestly don't seem to fit him all that well.
Claude's got his shirts, Anakin his Order.
And so, Claude's become increasingly aware of his privilege while knowing the other man. From food stuffs to the whole definition of freedom. ]
Rough day? I can undress further if you need the encouragement.
[ Voice softening, to show that it's a joke, timing's all wrong for full frontal nudity - timing and context, he holds his hands in front of his face, looking at Anakin across the top of them, an inch from actually leaning his chin there. ]
[ His smile fades, though his expression remains warm, happy. Actually, despite the incredibly boring task he's been ascribed because the Council can't be bothered to pretend to like him in any fashion, he's been told by no less than four different people over the past four days that he seems different, lighter. He'd be offended - he's not that grouchy under normal circumstances, is he? - except he's pretty sure they aren't exactly wrong. He feels... not as weighted down, mentally. Some might say it's the break from fighting but Anakin knows better.
He looks at Claude and he knows. ]
Please, go ahead.
[ A small gesture with his metal hand. ] '
Can't offer to do the same - I don't know how long this break is gonna be, someone might come looking for me. I'm on archive duty, Claude, can you believe it? Me. I've been here for eight years and I've never spent this many hours down there, not even in total. Kriff.
[ It's been fifteen minutes, tops, and Anakin's already floating.
The late afternoon sun is streaming in through the windows in Claude's bedroom, light falling across the wide floor in intricate patterns, broken and re-made by the shadows of the traffic lines, weaving between the rooftops. Anakin's gaze is fixed upwards on the skylight, though, strategically placed to avoid the view intersecting with any nearby lanes. Consequently, the sky looks clear, peaceful almost, and the feeling resonates within him, his own mental state very calm indeed. Orgasmically so, as it were.
He'd taken less than ten seconds upon arrival to shred his clothes in the hallway, pick Claude up by the buttocks - Claude, who'd only been wearing his kriffing loincloth - and carry him to bed, mouthing at his naked chest all the while. He'd ended up sucking him off and his jaw aches now, pleasantly, the taste of cock all over his tongue. Mm. He lies with his hands folded behind his head and one leg bent, his own cock half-hard now because he's nothing if not battle ready at any and all times.
Hah.
Smiling to himself, he glances sideways at Claude and nudges his calf with his foot.
[ Hello, it means, when Anakin nudges his calf with his foot, both of them naked and sweating and post-orgasmic, Claude two and a half seconds from falling asleep, because Anakin was so good to him, working his cock between his lips, on his tongue and actually, just thinking about it now is enough to get his crotch going again, tingling pleasantly, something - definitely - happening in his nether regions.
Hello. He smiles, turning his head towards the other man who's looking at him sideways, not quite on perfect eye level, but since the rest of him is altogether beautiful as well, Claude can deal with that. Chest. Abdomen, hard, cock, halfway there. He exhales long and hard at the sight, rolling slowly onto his side, supporting himself on his elbow as he pops his head up on his palm. It's a comfortably casual position, like there are no expections and persuasion between them, just this easy atmosphere of want and have, being given and giving back. ]
That was so good. [ Just that, all those feelings and thoughts wrapped up in four simple words. Almost seems too little, right? A kriffing essay on the subject would be too little. Claude simply doesn't have the words, they don't exist in his vocabulary. So he carries on, voice dropping a notch as he puts his weight back on his arm and leans in to rub his face completely unapologetically into the mess of Anakin's hair, nose brushing over the other man's temple, cheek, corner of mouth. His words are a whisper. ] Gonna take me a little while to get hard again, that good.
[ A smile. ]
If you have any suggestions on what to do while we wait, I'm listening.
[ Hello, it means. Please give me your voice, I wanna hear it. ]
[ He feels Claude's focus shift as the other man responds, nonverbally at first. He turns onto his side, looking at Anakin, his curls sticking a little to his forehead and his eyes flooded with that pleasant after-buzz of orgasm. He looks beautiful. Looking at him, Anakin wants to simultaneously eat him up and wrap him up between his arms, to shield him.
(He's been having dreams again but he's not thinking about that, he's very, very definitely not thinking about that.)
Instead, he thinks about Claude. The shift is easy, habitual.
Then, he considers the fact that Claude might need suggestions on what to do while they wait, and yeah, that'll push everything else into the background, thanks. The taste of his climax seemingly magnifies on the back of his tongue, against the roof of his mouth. Anakin's cheeks redden slightly as he looks him over, his cock hardening the rest of the way without any further prompting. It's almost ridiculous, really, how hot he gets for the other man, how quickly. Then again, it's all physical, isn't it? Sex. Love.
So of course, there's a natural, physical outlet. It's a logical conclusion that doesn't come as easily to him as he thinks it should; he's had that thought more than once the past week, that maybe he's been thinking about these things in the wrong way. It's an odd idea that he can't quite seem to hold onto for long enough to properly examine but that's how many things go in Anakin's life so he simply lets it be. It'll come back or it won't. It's just a thought, nothing important. ]
You did promise some prep, from what I recall.
[ He doesn't actually have any idea as to what that might imply but his cock certainly isn't being even slightly critical. He glances down at it, raising one eyebrow at the way it's straining against his abdomen, the tip a little flushed, even. ]
[ When Anakin glances down at his now very hard cock, completely at the ready, Claude does the same, lifting his head a bit to get the right angle, seeing cockhead, flushing a light pink, looking swollen and glinting, and Claude's mouth actively waters again, so he has to swallow something thick at the back of his throat. Oh. He's so hard for him, he's so hard and he wants so much and Claude wants to. His cock swells slightly, so much he can actively feel it between his thighs. There, hello.
He kisses Anakin's cheek softly and sits up, stretching languidly on the way before turning his head enough to look down at Anakin over his shoulder. There's a heavy weight between his legs now. Heavy, hard. He could just take him, but the mere thought of it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue and he feels almost physically ill, so Claude knows it can't - and shouldn't, more importantly - be like that. He wants Anakin to enjoy it. As much as Claude can already tell, he's gonna enjoy it. He's gonna. Because Anakin will let him.
He blinks. Smiles. ]
Been wanting to lick you open ever since you talked about fucking yourself. [ And when Claude says he's been thinking about it, it's more like he's been repeatedly jerking off to the idea of rimming the other man. He's done it a few times, after Rainier, because Rainier would never let him, but even that feels like a kind of first. Like this. Between them. ] If you're for that as well, what about rolling over on your stomach?
[ Only then does Claude turn around fully, facing Anakin once more, waiting patiently for him to make his own decisions. He's been informed. If he gets consent now, he's getting it all, more or less.
His cock feels heavy. His body feels heavy. His mind's clear. He wants, kriff, he wants so much to make it good for him. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thread tracker.
02 - keeping a high profile.
holo.
So. [ He holds up the cloth. ] There's really no other way, right? You aren't just playing around.
[ There might be a slight pleading note to his voice. This isn't - he's fairly certain some of Padmé's night gowns are made of twice the amount of fabric! It's not that he's vain, necessarily, he just isn't used to showing... skin. His legs are going to be all over the kriffing place. Not to mention his - how's he even gonna carry his lightsaber? ]
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Claude has chosen it himself, after all. Fits his eyes. ]
The Festival of Masks is a day of finding others not by the features that are most familiar to us - [ He taps his own cheek softly to indicate his face. ] - but by the parts that make up the whole person. It's symbolic.
[ A headshake, his voice going lighter, more teasing. A slight smile. ]
While I'm sure you'll stand out regardless, Skywalker, the mask offers some anonymity.
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His body's definitely not opposed but considering the length of the loincloth he's been given, he hardly thinks there's any room for further deliberation on that point. Actually, he can attest that there'll be no room whatsoever. Shifting, he leans back a little and sighs. ]
You realise I'll have to carry my lightsaber beneath the loincloth. As in, right next to - [ Pause. He trails off, his cheeks heating up very slightly. ] - my - anyway. Basic lightsaber safety rules. This one comes with some pretty gnarly anecdotes.
[ He winces at the thought, shifting in his seat. ]
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Yeah, Claude's going to say that reaction makes all the rest worth it. ]
I'm not sure I want to imagine, and yet here we are. [ He tilts his head, smiling. ] But I have faith in your ability not to lose a limb today, you know.
[ His tone is open, honest. He doesn't add that maybe he'd need it later, after all; Claude knows about boundaries, knows about respect. And he respects Skywalker even more than he wants him which says a great deal at this point. ]
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action.
He crashed his speeder bike, sure, but at least it crashed mostly without him.
These days, his life seems to be one, long stretch of the same, monotenous emptiness. He's been confined to the Temple for a month, following the mess on Claude's homeworld, Paris. A mess he certainly didn't create, mind, but of course he gets blamed for doing the right thing under the circumstances. No matter how much he's insisted that the war was inevitable, that Claude would have been killed to keep the corrupt leaders in power otherwise, he's still being punished. And being still on a break (and honestly, he's starting to think it's not a break at all), he can't even while away the hours with Padmé which feels highly unfair - he's finally home and then, there's nothing for him? No one. Just him.
Ahsoka's gone. Obi-Wan isn't, but Anakin doesn't particularly want to hang out with him.
So he races and he crashes and now, he's getting a glass of water for what little credits he's managed to make, regardless. He seats himself by the bar, anonymous, people leaving him alone, minding their own business. He slumps a little, feeling strangely defeated. ]
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Strangely enough, wearing trousers has been the most difficult acclimatization process of them all.
The title? He's glad to be without, kriff. He knows the new government will call on him eventually, there's been talk of changing their current senator for someone more willing to push for neutrality, but it's all in the works. Nothing's final. Nothing's there. Really, Claude feels like his entire life has been one long wait for something to settle the right way.
Tonight, he's decided to hit one of the bars on his way home from the small private collection of holobooks where he currently conducts his studies. His apartment in the upper-levels is bought for government grants, because he has turned down all royal appanages. They're the people's money, he'd said to the sound of loud cheering.
His planet has been thirsting. Well, tonight he's the thirsty one.
The bar is not high-class, but it's what you can afford when you live off other people's goodwill and what he can earn by assisting in academic projects here and there. He isn't by any means poor. He's simply adjusting from being dirty rich. Passing along the bar, he notices a tall, lanky-type man sitting hunched over a glass of water. Then, he stops. Turns. Walks over to the stool next to his, without seating himself, since he hasn't been invited. Claude isn't presumptuous, after all. ]
I think I just found you by your whole person, Skywalker.
[ No need for masks. No need for bare chests either. ]
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He blinks. Looks up, straightening a little.
In front of him, Claude stops by the stool next to his.
Anakin stares at this sudden manifestation of an actual, living, breathing person who might actually be a friend - then, finding his footing, he quickly nods at the chair in invitation and sits up straighter yet, brushing his dirty trousers down on instinct. Claude looks casual but good. Comfortable (and... nice. He looks nice). Anakin, meanwhile, has to swipe his bangs out of his face where the hair's sticking to him from sweat and dried motor oil. ]
So you did.
[ He tries to remember what he's heard of Claude since they kick-started the revolution in his homeworld. It isn't much. The Jedi Temple is a fairly closed-off world, particularly when you're kriffing grounded. ]
I see you got tired of a world without bureaucracy. [ A smile. ] Welcome to Coruscant.
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Figured I should aim higher this time. Are you going to help me start a revolution here as well?
[ There's no note of expectation in it. Claude knows he isn't sitting before his designated weapon of choice, to be pulled out when you need things to move and to move fast. Evidently, Anakin is good for that kind of stuff, but he has his own aspirations, no doubt. Hopes, dreams. His own stories. Claude remembers. Ask me again.
This was meant as a good-natured joke in return.
He gestures at the bartender as they move past them, holding up two fingers, leaving the decision as to what they're getting up to their discretion. It'll probably be strong and expensive, then. Exactly what they need. Attention back at the Jedi - who doesn't look altogether Jedi-like tonight. ]
You look like you already fought one, though. [ And because he wants it to be clear, between them. ] If you ask me, you should fight more.
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action.
When he'd shown Anakin inside, he'd felt the need to explain all of this to him, but realised that in itself was his own foolish pride talking, so he hadn't. He'd shrugged out of his coat and showed the other man to the bathroom, giving him free access to all the soaps and shampoos and oils and what else he'd brought from back home upon leaving. The Parisian Paceen Nut oil is nice, he'd told him as a parting note. Good for wound care. Tapping the bridge of his own nose to indicate Anakin's scrapes, he had smiled and left him to it.
Meanwhile, he's making the sofa bed in the living room with the great panoramic view of the skyline, his study on the other side of the partition dark and quiet for once. Otherwise, it's the most used part of the whole place. He all but lives in there. Long nights, too. Long, mostly lonely nights. The sofa bed is broad and big enough for two, easily, trust him, he's tried. Sure, he might as well have invited Anakin to sleep in his own, except the lack of boundaries... No, Claude prefers it this way, equal and even. No pressure. He straightens up and looks down at the clean linen, the duvet, pillow.
If Anakin has been a slave before, Claude doesn't want to be the one who expects something from him that isn't his to take, but only Anakins' to give. In a willingly and informed manner.
Inside the bathroom, the water stops running. ]
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In any case, he's now drying off from the shower, his skin still warm and damp, his hair long enough to come past his shoulders when it's wet - it's not practical but it's untraditional and Obi-Wan hates it so Anakin has kept it long, maintained the provocation of it. Finishing up, he considers his discarded under-tunics; they aren't ideal for sleeping, particularly not for sleeping with anyone. Sure, they will do in a pinch but they truly aren't in any way whatsoever sexy. Naturally, he can't presume that they'll be - that he and Claude will actually get that far tonight but surely, if he wears ugly, dirty under-clothes, the chances become immediately abysmal. He nods to himself and ties the towel around his hips, holding it in place with his metal fingers. There. He can - that's fine. Yes. It'll... do. He can smell that Paceen Nut oil very clearly on his skin and he feels smoother than usual, softer.
Everything is softer, really, inside and out.
Breathing out slowly, steeling himself, he leaves the fresher behind, dropping his pile of clothes on the nearest chair he finds on his way to the living room. His lightsaber is tucked away amongst them, easily available in case but not so easily discovered. Entering the living room, he pauses at the sight of Coruscant, stretching out beyond the windows. This high up, the sky looks vast, dwarfing the cityscape, the billons of lights from below reflected against the darkness further up. He looks at that, then at Claude who's made up the sofa bed. Claude, who wanted to take him home tonight. Claude, who understands.
Heart beating faster, he takes another deep breath and walks over to him, keeping the towel stretched tightly around his hips and thighs. ]
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It's not a fine line. Yet, the distinction isn't always easy to make.
One thing is Rainier, this - yeah, this is something else.
He smiles, letting his eyes slowly run down over Anakin's upper body, the breadth of it, broad shoulders, mechno arm fully bared along with flat plains of chest and stomach. Dip of hipbone. Slim legs. What could as well be a loincloth in the middle, making Claude remember the mission on Paris. Anakin dashing from side to side to catch the assassin in the tightly packed Parisian crowd, wearing nothing but the sky blue loincloth Claude had got for him. That, and his lightsaber with which he'd managed not to cut off anything essential, you got to presume.
One eyebrow going up, he looks up at the other man's face. His expression is light-hearted, some easy amusement. Not at Anakin, but with him. It's for sharing. Gesturing vaguely at the middle of the man, he says: ]
No lightsabers hidden beneath there this time?
[ It might be a dick joke, it might not. It might also be a benign reference to a story they share, something they already hold in common, dicks and beds aside. Claude likes the openness of it, chose the question because it doesn't beg only one kind of answer.
He wouldn't ask had it been any different.
Meeting Anakin's eyes, the brightest, clearest blue he's ever seen, a rarity on Paris, he cocks his head a little, chin angled upwards enough to hold that sense of connection. It's like a role reversal. This time Claude is the one in full uniform and Anakin in the nude. Almost. In some ways, entirely. ]
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He quirks an eyebrow at Claude's question, shifting a little and watching him from across the small distance. It's funny, how Claude seems both natural and at odds with his surroundings - it's not like Padmé, who'll never not be a Queen, no matter where she stands in the political sphere. Claude looks like he knows about the riches around him but Anakin has no trouble imagining him in a hut somewhere far beyond the glamour of the Core Worlds, dusty and dirty, carrying that same look on his face, the same quiet strength in his stance, not on the way back to what he knows but moving forward, towards whatever he's seeing in the distance, the vision he's shared with Anakin in bits and pieces whenever they've talked. He transcends.
And no matter where they'd be at this time, he'd still be equal parts careful and gentle and sharp underneath it all, sharp enough to tear down worlds if he wanted to, if he had the tools and the means. The hands.
The next step isn't difficult, he finds. It could have been but it isn't.
Anakin drops his towel. ]
You tell me.
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Today is no exception, even if he woke up warm and heavy from a whole night's worth of incredible sex. He can still feel that tell-tale laziness of it, of multiple orgasms and the foreign sensation of being sated - though his mind can't abide by it, his body would honestly like to just sleep forever. Wrapped up around Claude, if at all possible·
As it is, he's been to the market, using what little credits he managed to win on yesterday's racing. He's scrounged up a handful of traditional Tatooine ingredients because he's felt like it, because he can. He hasn't, for... a long time. Long. Back in Claude's kitchen, with Claude still asleep in the bedroom down the hall, he's laid them all out on the cutting board. Fresh herbs. A neutral oil, rich in texture, some whole-grain flour that's a case of close enough, if not quite right. And of course, dried Zbi. He makes breakfast with the dim morning light streaming in through the kitchen windows, catching in the sleek table top and re-bounding against his mechno-hand while he works. He prepares a simple plate of flatbread, a mix of oil and ground-up honey-flowers for dipping and bowls of porridge, sprinkled with sugar and small bits of sweetened desert plums. Lastly, he fixes up two mugs of steaming Zbi, a milky beverage full of spices, warm and a little sharp around the edges, a little harder to swallow than you might expect.
With that, he makes his way to the bedroom, balancing everything on the tray with an ease that feels very situational, like his hands couldn't shake even if he wanted them to. It does, very briefly, cross his mind that Claude might not like the food at all - it is, after all, something very different from what he's probably used to. But then, perhaps he won't mind.
Perhaps he truly won't mind after all. ]
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Up here, you almost can't hear the beating heart of Coruscant. Which fits with the scents starting to waft in from the kitchen soon enough, because that's not the smell of Coruscanti cuisine. Not the smell of anything he's ever really encountered before and Claude knows the galaxy is vast, he's met people from across it, in his position as Prince of Paris.
Yet, this is new. This is new, all of it. The scents, the feelings. The overwhelming relief at not having been abandoned in the early morning hours.
Once he hears the clinking of cutlery and cups, metal tray, steps against the floors, he pushes the duvet down around his waist and sits up, hair a mess around his head, his vision blurry. Anakin, moving from the doorway to the bed, is back in the clothes he arrived in and Claude honestly feels a little bereft, he remembers his chest, he remembers his thighs, the flat expanses of stomach. Lower. Yeah, he remembers that, too. Running a hand through his hair, messing it up even further, it dawns on him - along with the morning light - that Anakin has made him food.
Something tightens in his chest. ]
You felt like cooking me breakfast? [ Reaching out and patting the mattress next to him, the cooling spot that Anakin must have left earlier, while he was still snoozing, he follows him with his eyes. ] It smells delicious. Where did you get all this?
[ It's deliberate, the way he doesn't say, where is it from or where did you learn about it? He's giving Anakin a way out, if he doesn't want to talk about it yet, he can just say the market. Everything's from the market, in the end.
Sometimes people, too. Claude swallows hard. ]
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The market, a few streets away.
[ He hears Claude's unspoken question, of course, but it takes him a few seconds to gather himself enough to actually answer it properly. Naked once more (and showered, as it were, meaning the contrasts allow him to smell the remnants of their night together very clearly on Claude's skin, on the sheets and oh, he likes that), he slips into bed next to Claude and pulls the tray a little to the side, enough for it to rest between them, balanced on their thighs.
He picks up his own mug. Looks into the brown, almost reddish swirl of liquid inside and swallows. ]
There's a vendor, there, who sometimes happens to pick up Outer Rim goods. He bargains them off at a low price, obviously, because... well. [ A shrug. ] Fancy stuff for fancy people, I guess. But they were cheap so I'm not complaining.
[ He sips his Zbi. It stings a little on his tongue. ]
I'm from Tatooine, you see, and these are all pretty regular breakfast items there.
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He holds the cup for a moment, just feeling the heat of it between this fingers. ]
It's got a zing to it, huh? [ A sip. It's a whole new world smacking him in the face, tastes red and sandy and sunny, but not sunny like his own home planet, sunny like kriffing star systems. His eyes widen slightly while he lets the impressions hit, pass, another sip, slightly bigger. ] Tastes strong, but strong isn't even the word. We don't have anything that generates that kind of bodily excitement on Paris. More like Caf.
[ A pause, the cup weighing in the silence, present and round. Claude looks at Anakin for a long moment, licking his lips - tasting like a different kind of life on the tip of his tongue, before saying gently: ]
I like it. Has it got a name?
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holo.
So, now, late into the afternoon, work cut short by the President's call on him to assure that elections would open before the week is out, Claude is sitting on his bed, where Anakin had fed him his Tatooine breakfast, in front of his transmitter in only a pair of loose trousers, the bare-chestedness so natural to him that he generally undresses as soon as he returns home. Anything else feels constricting.
Even if he has left the loincloths behind on Paris. ]
Hey. [ He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees. ] Good to be reminded what you look like clothed, Anakin.
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He settles cross-legged on his bed and, finally, reads the caller ID. Then, he busts into a smile and turns it on, incredibly happy to be treated not just to an image of Claude, but half-naked Claude with his pretty curls and his warm, brown eyes, and Anakin's tasted every inch of skin on that chest, oh. ]
I'm the lucky one, aren't I? [ A quirked eyebrow and a nod in Claude's general direction. You, it means. You're beautiful. ] Thanks for brightening my day, I definitely needed it.
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Then, the second part of the sentence registers and he tilts his head to one side, curls bouncing all over the place. He's been thinking about Anakin the past four days, not just naked and writhing and moaning, but Anakin - in the Jedi Temple, doing who knows what they really do in there except going to war, keeping the peace, constricted to a life and an environment that honestly don't seem to fit him all that well.
Claude's got his shirts, Anakin his Order.
And so, Claude's become increasingly aware of his privilege while knowing the other man. From food stuffs to the whole definition of freedom. ]
Rough day? I can undress further if you need the encouragement.
[ Voice softening, to show that it's a joke, timing's all wrong for full frontal nudity - timing and context, he holds his hands in front of his face, looking at Anakin across the top of them, an inch from actually leaning his chin there. ]
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He looks at Claude and he knows. ]
Please, go ahead.
[ A small gesture with his metal hand. ] '
Can't offer to do the same - I don't know how long this break is gonna be, someone might come looking for me. I'm on archive duty, Claude, can you believe it? Me. I've been here for eight years and I've never spent this many hours down there, not even in total. Kriff.
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action.
The late afternoon sun is streaming in through the windows in Claude's bedroom, light falling across the wide floor in intricate patterns, broken and re-made by the shadows of the traffic lines, weaving between the rooftops. Anakin's gaze is fixed upwards on the skylight, though, strategically placed to avoid the view intersecting with any nearby lanes. Consequently, the sky looks clear, peaceful almost, and the feeling resonates within him, his own mental state very calm indeed. Orgasmically so, as it were.
He'd taken less than ten seconds upon arrival to shred his clothes in the hallway, pick Claude up by the buttocks - Claude, who'd only been wearing his kriffing loincloth - and carry him to bed, mouthing at his naked chest all the while. He'd ended up sucking him off and his jaw aches now, pleasantly, the taste of cock all over his tongue. Mm. He lies with his hands folded behind his head and one leg bent, his own cock half-hard now because he's nothing if not battle ready at any and all times.
Hah.
Smiling to himself, he glances sideways at Claude and nudges his calf with his foot.
Hello, it means. ]
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Hello. He smiles, turning his head towards the other man who's looking at him sideways, not quite on perfect eye level, but since the rest of him is altogether beautiful as well, Claude can deal with that. Chest. Abdomen, hard, cock, halfway there. He exhales long and hard at the sight, rolling slowly onto his side, supporting himself on his elbow as he pops his head up on his palm. It's a comfortably casual position, like there are no expections and persuasion between them, just this easy atmosphere of want and have, being given and giving back. ]
That was so good. [ Just that, all those feelings and thoughts wrapped up in four simple words. Almost seems too little, right? A kriffing essay on the subject would be too little. Claude simply doesn't have the words, they don't exist in his vocabulary. So he carries on, voice dropping a notch as he puts his weight back on his arm and leans in to rub his face completely unapologetically into the mess of Anakin's hair, nose brushing over the other man's temple, cheek, corner of mouth. His words are a whisper. ] Gonna take me a little while to get hard again, that good.
[ A smile. ]
If you have any suggestions on what to do while we wait, I'm listening.
[ Hello, it means. Please give me your voice, I wanna hear it. ]
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(He's been having dreams again but he's not thinking about that, he's very, very definitely not thinking about that.)
Instead, he thinks about Claude. The shift is easy, habitual.
Then, he considers the fact that Claude might need suggestions on what to do while they wait, and yeah, that'll push everything else into the background, thanks. The taste of his climax seemingly magnifies on the back of his tongue, against the roof of his mouth. Anakin's cheeks redden slightly as he looks him over, his cock hardening the rest of the way without any further prompting. It's almost ridiculous, really, how hot he gets for the other man, how quickly. Then again, it's all physical, isn't it? Sex. Love.
So of course, there's a natural, physical outlet. It's a logical conclusion that doesn't come as easily to him as he thinks it should; he's had that thought more than once the past week, that maybe he's been thinking about these things in the wrong way. It's an odd idea that he can't quite seem to hold onto for long enough to properly examine but that's how many things go in Anakin's life so he simply lets it be. It'll come back or it won't. It's just a thought, nothing important. ]
You did promise some prep, from what I recall.
[ He doesn't actually have any idea as to what that might imply but his cock certainly isn't being even slightly critical. He glances down at it, raising one eyebrow at the way it's straining against his abdomen, the tip a little flushed, even. ]
I'm obviously all for whatever you were thinking.
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He kisses Anakin's cheek softly and sits up, stretching languidly on the way before turning his head enough to look down at Anakin over his shoulder. There's a heavy weight between his legs now. Heavy, hard. He could just take him, but the mere thought of it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue and he feels almost physically ill, so Claude knows it can't - and shouldn't, more importantly - be like that. He wants Anakin to enjoy it. As much as Claude can already tell, he's gonna enjoy it. He's gonna. Because Anakin will let him.
He blinks. Smiles. ]
Been wanting to lick you open ever since you talked about fucking yourself. [ And when Claude says he's been thinking about it, it's more like he's been repeatedly jerking off to the idea of rimming the other man. He's done it a few times, after Rainier, because Rainier would never let him, but even that feels like a kind of first. Like this. Between them. ] If you're for that as well, what about rolling over on your stomach?
[ Only then does Claude turn around fully, facing Anakin once more, waiting patiently for him to make his own decisions. He's been informed. If he gets consent now, he's getting it all, more or less.
His cock feels heavy. His body feels heavy. His mind's clear. He wants, kriff, he wants so much to make it good for him. ]
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