By a Roaring Fire

The fire crackled and flashed in the ancient fireplace that heated the karyai, its rich and inviting warmth filling the room with the age-old cheer of an authentic blaze. Lying curled up in front of it, Rifler and Jorson were conversing quietly despite being the only two in that part of Kyrimorut. Jorson was flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling while Rifler snuggled against his side, head to chest.

“…So then, this Rodian grabs my cards, throws my chips across the table, and tells me to leave,” Jorson said, his free hand waving to emphasize his words.

Rifler craned his neck to look into Jorson’s eyes. “Just because you were winning?”

“Yeah…kind of funny really. How immature he was, I mean. I’d only won a few hands, it’s not like I’d nailed the grand prize at a Sabacc match on Corellia.”

Rifler chuckled. “You should see me play sometime…or really, that Rodian should.”

“I’ve seen you play Sabacc…you suck,” Jorson laughed, ruffling Rifler’s hair—which was now considerably shorter than the shoulder-length mane it had been earlier just that day. Now the brown-tinted locks were just long enough to curl defiantly.

Frowning, Rifler protested, “That’s only because Atin was cheating! I’d have been winning in a fair match.”

Now it was Jorson’s turn to laugh, kissing his husband’s forehead as he snickered.

In the fireplace, a log cracked, sending sparks flying and crackling loudly. Rifler jumped at the noise and light, blinking rapidly at the surprise as he sat up, reaching for a weapon that was not there. Jorson sat up more slowly, at arm pulling Rifler closer again.

“Udesii, cyar’ika, it’s just the fire,” he crooned, lips caressing Rifler’s throat behind his ear. Very quickly, Rifler relaxed into the sensation, his eyes closing and he leaned back into Jorson’s arms. His mouth opened slightly, his breathe coming in tiny, quick gasps as Jorson’s kisses hardened against his throat, becoming more a nibbling bite than a kiss.

Pulling away ever so slightly, Rifler turned in his lover’s arms to face him, their legs tangling as their mouths met. Jorson went limp, falling back to the floor. Falling with him, Rifler threw his hands out to catch himself and realizing he was suspended tantalizingly close above Jorson. It was impossible to resist, even though he tried to drag the moment out. Despite himself, Rifler found himself sliding down into Jorson’s embrace, nuzzling his neck and breathing in the other man’s familiar musky scent.

Almost painfully, Jorson pulled Rifler tight against him, making him gasp. Then his breath caught completely as Jorson rolled over, pinning Rifler down by the wrists, kissing and biting Rifler’s jaw, his neck, his shoulder. Rifler’s back arched and he whimpered as Jorson’s teeth clamped hard on his throat, hands moving upward so their fingers could intertwine. It was painful, but Rifler loved every moment of it.

Eventually he relaxed into the nipping and biting, eyes rolling back and mouth opening slightly. Moving as soon as he felt the change, Jorson’s head came up and they kissed, Rifler moaning as Jorson’s tongue slipped into his mouth.

Despite himself, Rifler bucked his hips, grinding against his husband. Jorson grinned and pulled away teasingly, still holding Rifler down.

“What’re you going to do now, love?” Jorson asked, his voice low and husky.

Panting, Rifler just shook his head.

Jorson raised an eyebrow. “What? Not fighting?”

Rifler smiled, eyes glinting in the firelight, and settled deeper into the rug they were on.

Settled down on top of his lover, Jorson was just about to kiss him when the door swung open and Kal Skirata walked in. Both clones’ heads snapped up at the sound just in time to watch as Kal nearly gave himself whiplash by stopping dead in his tracks.

“Get a room,” the old sergeant grumbled, shaking his head.