TITLE: You're Going To Be Sorry
AUTHOR: Violet
DISCLAIMER: If I play with Barbie dolls, does it mean I own the trademark to Barbie? I think not.
DISTRIBUTION: Share freely. Credit always.
FEEDBACK: It is the diesel in my tank.
RATING: NC-17
WARNING: B&D. Also, I don't know what the age of consent on Coruscant is. Let's just say it's probably the same as in your home country, and we'll leave it at that.
SUMMARY: An apprentice challenges his master. And vice versa.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place between Episodes I and II.
DEDICATION: For Dylan, who wanted more.

____________________________________________

"You're going to be sorry."

Obi-Wan barely believed his ears. He stopped in his tracks.

The words could have been the hiss of a ventilation shaft. A rustle of fabric. They had been spoken so quietly it could have been nothing more than his mind constructing fantastic syllables out of a meaningless burst of air.

But there was no denying it. Those words may have floated on a gust of breath but their razor edges landed on Obi-Wan's ears with certainty. He wheeled around, incredulous.

That smirking face of his padawan, head bowed in subtle, mannered deference but eyes boring warm and smoky with challenge into his master's. That twitch of brow between his eyes, the one Obi-Wan was starting to recognize, like the quiver at the edge of a rancor's lip that makes experienced handlers take large, watchful steps back. Teeth set edge to edge behind lips barely parted. A smile slowly curling with menace.

"What did you say?" Obi-Wan said, voice thick with disbelief.

It hadn't begun like this. Anakin awoke in a good mood -- or, what at least resembled a good mood, thought Obi-Wan. It was nearly impossible to predict when his padawan's temperament would make a sudden, dark swing, and sometimes Obi-Wan knew it would be a challenging day as soon as he had to rouse a scowling Anakin awake. To see him dressed and ready to go at the appointed hour, folded in silent meditation when Obi-Wan knocked on his door, was a pleasant surprise and a welcome good omen. (Aside from making bantha-sized portions of food disappear effortlessly, Obi-Wan thought, teenage boys seemed to exude an enhanced gravitational pull against their own beds once they finally fall asleep. He made a mental note to draft a formal letter of apology for every moment of his own adolescence to every member of the Jedi Council.)

The exercise, too, was one of Anakin's favorites. Even though the boy could barely catch his breath after the compulsory laps, Obi-Wan swore he saw a quick, hungry flash of delight in Anakin's eyes when the remotes swung into the air. His weapon snapped into his hands before his eager eyes even locked with predatory intensity onto his targets. And, by the force, he was so good at it. His precognitive sense where the remotes would be was unparalleled, the likes of which Obi-Wan had never seen, not even from his own master. He deflected every bolt from six -- six! -- remotes with graceful economy, each movement as cool and certain as water winding its way around a rock in a stream. Watching him at work was sheer joy, poetry written in space with light and cloth and great sweeping, ionizing hums of the blade. Obi-Wan permitted himself a small, proud smile.

Depleted, the remotes thudded lifelessly to the floor.

"What's next?" Anakin said, panting, eyes eager for more. "Seven? Eight?"

Obi-Wan hesitated. Should he?

And then . . . why not?

"No," he said, smiling, stepping closer. "Try me."

This was to be the first time Anakin had gone up against a living opponent. Obi-Wan saw the boy blanch a bit and swallow hard but straighten up in sudden, nervous readiness, his weapon thrust out tensely in front of him as if to take on all comers.

"Stop." Obi-Wan held up his hand. "Where's your fighting stance? Drop your shoulders." Anakin's shoulders retreated from around his ears.

"Head up. Relax. Don't forget what you've learned. Everything we've covered so far isn't a rehearsal. It's the real thing. Drop your shoulders." Anakin's shoulders relaxed once more.

"Fighting stance." Anakin shuffled his feet, balanced his hips. His shoulders were dropped but his arms still jutted rigid with tension. "Relax. Look at me. Look at ME." Anakin's eyes jumped from the glow of his blade to Obi-Wan's face. "Never let your eyes leave me." Obi-Wan said, voice calm and even. Anakin nodded gravely.

"Now. I'm not going to attack you. I want you to feel what one blade against the other feels like." He ignited his weapon and settled into a relaxed mirror image of Anakin's rigid, elementary stance. "Your weapon isn't just a destructive tool. Everything you need to know about your opponent is right here. Head up." Anakin lifted his chin, eyes still unblinking on Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan continued. "Before your opponent even strikes a blow, you'll feel it." Gingerly, he lowered his blade against Anakin's. The moment their lightsabers crossed the air burst with singed ozone and a jarring vibration reverberated through the bones of their wrists. Anakin almost dropped his weapon.

"See? Not so easy as it looks." Obi-Wan said. The low menacing hum that filled the room now conducted through their bones, a rattling drone that filled their ears and took the sharpness off all ambient sound. Anakin's unaccustomed arms shook slightly with the vibration.

Careful now." Obi-Wan warned. "You all right?" Anakin nodded mutely, face tight with concentration.

Obi-Wan was keeping even, light pressure on Anakin's blade. "I'm going to step forward now --" and as he did, the bone-jarring frequency in his wrists soared but abated quickly as Anakin retreated, slipping back in perfect technique. For the second time today, Obi-Wan permitted himself a brief swell of pride.

"Perfect." he said. " How did you know where I was going to go?"

"The blade," said Anakin. "I felt it in the blade."

"Perfect. Absolutely right. This weapon --" Obi-Wan pressed again, a little faster, and Anakin slipped even more smoothly than before -- "handled correctly, will tell you everything about where your opponent is going to go. And likewise --" he turned and pressed on him from a different angle, and Anakin stumbled a bit but turned and slipped and recovered as aptly as before -- "the more correctly you handle your weapon, the less you'll tell your opponent. Now come at me."

Anakin hesitated for a second and lunged forward so clumsily Obi-Wan easily stepped away before he even felt the pressure on the blade. "Ani, I saw that coming. How do you lunge?"

"With your hips."

"How did you lunge?"

"With my shoulders."

Obi-Wan nodded. "Try again."

Anakin inhaled deep through his nose, then steadied himself and tried again. This time his parry was better -- awkward, but still better. His third try was very good. Obi-Wan's pulse quickened a bit as he stepped away, instinctively protecting himself with a basic deflection. Anakin's face relaxed. A little smile crested his lips -- and maybe, just for a moment, that subtle little twitch in his brow. . . ?

Anakin stepped forward with sudden velocity. The tip of the blade jutted vulnerably close to Obi-Wan's eyebrows. He stepped back quickly, a quick swirl of his wrist twisting the weapon out of Anakin's grasp. It rolled onto the floor, its slide across the room halted by a quick jump into Obi-Wan's waiting palm. He switched it off.

"Easy." Obi-Wan said, with great seriousness.

"Easy?" Anakin's face clouded with incredulity. "I thought you were a Jedi." He reached out. The abandoned blade jumped to his hands and switched on with a searing PZOW. "If you're going to teach me, then teach me."

"I'm not going to teach you." Obi-Wan powered down his own blade. "Not until you gain some control." He stepped away.

"Oh come on," Anakin was right behind him. "Come on, I just want to learn."

"No!" The forcefulness of his refusal shrank Anakin back. "Not today." Obi-Wan muttered, almost to himself. "I see now you're not ready." He took the lightsaber from Anakin's hands. "You can earn the right to use this weapon. Starting right now." He turned and walked away.

"You're going to be sorry." whispered Anakin.

The threat caught Obi-Wan mid-stride. He paused, slowly turned. His padawan was glowering. Seething. His dark eyes - and twitching brow - broadcast a silent menace of perverse and murderous proportion.

"What did you say?"

He held the boy's gaze, for a long, uncomfortable silence.

Those dark eyes didn't stop their depth charge to the pit of Obi-Wan's being, but the boy showed his hand the moment the corner of his lower lip darted in for one nervous chew.

"Sorry, master." Eyes downcast. Pouting. Believably contrite. Obi-Wan wasn't buying it.

"Laps. Again. Until you fall down from exhaustion. Then meditation. In silence. For the rest of the afternoon. Until you're ready to honor my authority." He shook the weapon, weighing it heavy in his hand. "And this tradition."

He turned and stalked off.

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Obi-Wan didn't need to check with the other members of the council to be certain Anakin had completed his punishment. When he limped in the door late that night, well past the dinner hour, his face drawn and white, his eyes hollow with dehydration, a pathetic, limping caricature of the energized boy he was half a day ago, there was no doubt in his mind the boy had followed his orders. Even though it secretly pained him, he made no move to assist when Anakin's dragging feet fumbled and, lacking the strength to catch himself, crashed hard and facedown on the cold stone floor. He coughed, the hoarse desperate cough of lungs emptied by force, and lay still for one defeated moment.

"Get up, Anakin," Obi-Wan said, with as much dispassion as he could muster. "Jedi do not sleep on the floor."

Something about the word "Jedi" and the forgiveness it implied stirred the boy. He raised himself up on wobbling arms and stumbled past Obi-Wan to his bed. Anakin's fingers fumbled to undo his clothes but standing at the edge of the bed, his eyes rolled up violently and he swayed, his head lolling forward like a man made dizzy by a great height or sudden bloodshed. The dead weight of his body crashed to the bed, loud enough for Obi-Wan to hear.

Obi-Wan crept into the room. Anakin was dead asleep. One arm was wedged uncomfortably under his side, but his insensate face gave no clue that it caused him any discomfort. His face was smooth, unworried, his mouth open in comatose ecstasy. It was so hard to remember the sudden furies that bubbled under his disposition when seeing him like this, Obi-Wan thought. Stripped of the pain that rippled under his face, he looked like a sleeping angel. The untroubled boy he might have been, born to luckier circumstance in a different time and place, only rose to the surface at unguarded moments like these.

Against his better judgment, Obi-Wan slid his hands under Anakin's contorted shoulder and with a grunt shifted the boy's body to the side, letting his trapped arm lay free on the mattress. If Anakin felt it, he gave no indication. His breath didn't even quicken.

Obi-Wan moved away from the bed and turned out the lights, shutting the door quietly as he stepped out of the room and into his own.

Train the boy, Qui-Gon had said. The last request of a dying man.

Obi-Wan sighed.

"Only for you," he said to the empty room, and shut the lights.

______________________________________________________________

The dull pain jarred Obi-Wan out of deep sleep. His hands throbbed with swollen pressure and the bones in his wrists shrieked. He instinctively pulled his hands closer to see what was wrong only to yelp in agony and shock. A long strip of fabric wound around each of them, the stretched cloth cutting like a blade into the secret pressure points in his wrists with sadistic accuracy. A jolt of pain cut through his underarms all the way to his shoulder blades.

In the dark, a weight pounced on him, two knees gouging him in the back, two hands clamping angrily on his shoulders. A voice hissed in his ear.

"You like that?" Anakin said.

Hands slipped over his forehead, scraping a rough bolt of material over his face. It quickly found purchase in the notch of his mouth and Anakin pulled tight, yanking Obi-Wan's head back as he tied the gag. It tasted sweaty and musky and Obi-Wan realized it was Anakin's filthy sash, still rank and salty from the afternoon's torturous laps. He gagged, and screamed, and panicked when no sound escaped.

The sheets swept off his back in one flourish and Obi-Wan realized, with the sudden chill of night air, that he was naked. He reflexively tried to jump only to realize his ankles were bound.

How can this be? The boy was all but comatose the last he saw him. Was he so strong in the Force as to be hot and ready for violence mere hours later after working himself to exhaustion? Or maybe his exhaustion was a façade --

Knees hammered into his back again. Soft canvas on the small of his back, with uncomfortable, kidney-crushing pressure. The boy must still be wearing his pants.

"Not so easy now, is it?" Radiating heat made the hairs on Obi-Wan's back prickle. The naked skin of the boy's chest was inches away, broadcasting a soft glow onto Obi-Wan's back. Hands slid under Obi-Wan's armpits, clasped behind his neck, the full weight of the boy's warm chest lowered to his back. "Now you're going to take orders from me." He could feel the boy's breath on his neck, a hot little plume of fire inches from his ear. Something solid and insistent and still under cloth burrowed in the crack of his ass.

A hand slid around to the side of Obi-Wan's head. Two fingers hooking the adam's apple. Thumb on the soft spot behind the ear. The very first stun grip Obi-Wan taught him. And he was certain Anakin hadn't been listening. The boy's fingers sunk expertly into the secret hollows of his flesh and Obi-Wan's temples throbbed with blocked blood and his vision blackened slightly, just for an instant, before Anakin eased off. The boy was toying with him. Letting him know how easily he could kill him. Struggle was futile, the gesture said. Obi-Wan received the message with perfect clarity.

"Shoulders down, Obi-Wan." His voice was filigreed with mockery. "Head up. Relax. Nothing to it." Anakin's left hand remained locked around Obi-Wan's throat. His right hand slid free. Dread drilled an acid hole in Obi-Wan's stomach. Where was that hand going?

"Tell me about your vow of chastity." Anakin said.

"Mmmmppphh."

"No, really, do tell. I'm all ears. Oh, I'm sorry. Silly me." Fingers fumbled roughly with the tangled skein knotted at the base of Obi-Wan's skull. Then paused.

"But if I take this off, you might scream. But then again . . . " His pincer grip tightened on Obi-Wan's neck and for a moment starburst clusters exploded behind his eyes and swam into soporific blackness before Anakin let go. Obi-Wan gasped and let the blood buzz in his ears as the blackness fell away.

"Now --" Anakin yanked the cloth out of Obi-Wan's mouth. "Chastity."

"Anakin, this is a terrible mistake. Look at what y - . . . ."

The words died a sudden and unnatural death when Anakin snaked his wet tongue to the rim of Obi-Wan's ear, swallowed his earlobe in a volcanic slurp, bit hard on the cartilage, sending radiating chill down Obi-Wan's neck, alerting every hair and every pore on the skin of his neck to their sudden reassignment as an erogenous zone.

"Something like that? Have I violated your code yet?" His whisper was hot and insistent in his ear.

Obi-Wan swallowed hard. "A Jedi's chastity resides from within, not in what is done to him." He invested the hollow words with as much sincerity as he could muster.

Anakin slid his tongue over Obi-Wan's neck, the same zone of skin electrified moments before. That coarse, wet, hot slide of the flat of his tongue. The way his teeth slid to the nape of Obi-Wan's neck and bit, hard. The grind of his hips against his ass. That insistent pressure.

"So I can do whatever I want to you." He slid his palm over Obi-Wan's hips. Fingernails ground into pubic hair. Obi-Wan's flesh jumped, in spite of himself. Anakin felt it.

"And as long as you don't enjoy it . . ." his fingertips teased at the base of Obi-Wan's involuntarily stiffening cock " . . . you haven't done anything wrong." His fingers slid to the underside of Obi-Wan's cock, right where the hard flesh meets the undulating soft tissue of his balls, and drew slowly upward. Sliding in that groove up to the sweet spot right below the head, that knot of flesh hovering beneath the tender skin, thumping back a frantic, fluttering pulse to Anakin's barely touching fingertip.

Obi-Wan's eyes were rolled up in his eye sockets. His jaw hung lax. No one had touched him like this in years.

"Let's see what else you don't enjoy . . . master." Anakin's voice was redolent with sarcasm. He withdrew his hand -- Obi-Wan died a little at the loss of his touch -- and spit into his palm. But when the slickened flesh of his hand wrapped around Obi-Wan's cock again and slid gliding, expert strokes Obi-Wan forgot every fiber of resolve left in his body. Nothing mattered now. The universe could collapse and burn out into a dense charred little star the size of a clenched fist and the only thing that mattered was that Anakin would keep doing that, keep stroking his now solid and rock-hard cock with his insouciant little fist.

He was on the verge now. Some balance was tipping in his body, some chain of inexorable events now setting themselves up. Each stroke was sweeter, radiatingly, throbbingly sweeter -- and the boy was so good, so expert, his fingertips dug into that groove, that secret sweet spot of which even Obi-Wan was unaware, slipping the soft web of his thumb up over the head of Obi-Wan's cock, letting the underside ridge jounce up against the crest of his hand before sliding down again with each compoundingly delicious stroke . . .

he was so close . . .

Anakin's fist unlocked and dropped Obi-Wan's cock. The electric pleasure of his touch bled out of Obi-Wan's soul, a sinking absence whooshing in to fill the vacuum. No touch. No stroke. Just a seeping emptiness and a hard crash. Despair, and then deep, torturous frustration. Obi-Wan ground his teeth in anger and suddenly felt real guilt smolder slow and sickening through his body. That was it. He had broken his vow. But you couldn't get away, the justification rose up quickly and as soon as he thought it he knew that was a lie too. The force of his shame burned hard and toxic. Tears welled in the corner of his eyes . . . .

and then the boy grabbed him again and that pleasure, that jaw-dropping, eye-rolling, flesh-afire pleasure and Obi-Wan knew he was beaten. That shame still burned in his chest as he sunk into Anakin's unholy touch and it made him feel broken, used, defeated . . . ecstatic. The joy of surrender. The thrill of total, utter submission. When the boy released his grip from Obi-Wan's neck, he didn't move. He sunk into the bed in limp defeat and listened to the soft rustle of the ties undone at Anakin's belt. When he felt Anakin's warm hips against his ass, the spike of pressure against his parted cheeks, an ecstatic death wish crested his mind. I want him to hurt me, he thought. I want to know I've been ruined. And he got his wish an instant later when the ounce of pressure needed to break the seal of Obi-Wan's virginity blasted a sudden crack of purifying pain right up his spine, as hot sweat beaded involuntarily on his upper lip as Anakin thrust in, that penetrating, spearing jolt of exquisite agony.

Obi-Wan's hands shook violently. His body reeled from shock. His ass cramped in involuntary horror as Anakin's cock thrust deep to some secret spot, some internal space as much an uncharted territory to Obi-Wan as to Anakin. Anakin had him pinned, his knees drawn up tight and hard on the backs of Obi-Wan's thighs, his hands gripped crushingly tight around Obi-Wan's wrists, pinning him to the bed. His leverage gave him bruising advantage, each thrust of his hips gouging Obi-Wan in some agonizing way. That is, the apex of the thrust was agonizing. The downstroke slowly revealed a sweet dividend as Obi-Wan's body quit fighting his padawan's and relaxed enough to grab a sticky-sweet drag of pleasure at the end of each thrust . . . only to suffer another maiming jolt of deep dull pain with a fresh pound of his hips. Pain, pleasure. Pain, pleasure. They ebbed and flowed in exhausting waves and reduced Obi-Wan to a shattered, quivering shell. His hands clawed at the sheets like a man desperately scrabbling at the face of the cliff he was tumbling down, down, to inevitable, certain doom. Anakin's grip held him firm.

"I wanted to fuck you for a long time," Anakin breathed into his ear, his voice broken by his own panting. "I wanted to break you." He bit the back of Obi-Wan's neck again, this time not gently, hard enough for that popping sharp pinch that means broken skin. I'll wear his mark, thought Obi-Wan, and the thought filled him with a dark thrill.

"In the arena, I'll do what you say," gasped the boy. His words were choked with impending orgasm. "I'll take your orders. I'll follow . . .I'll follow your instruction. But here . . ." and Obi-Wan felt the ring of his ass tighten with the last surge of blood as the boy pounded him one, two, three and then came, some hot, sticky, deep explosion inside him, the final desecration of Obi-Wan's body, the blood seal that bound him to Anakin forever.

Anakin collapsed onto Obi-Wan's back. His body was burning and sticky with sweat. His breath was steady and hoarse in Obi-Wan's ear, deep inhales and hot exhales slowing to nothing.

"But here . . . I am _your_ master."

"You can't tell anyone." Anakin slid off of Obi-Wan, withdrawing with a sliding, wet pop that left Obi-Wan empty, aching for something, anything, to feed the perverse hunger awakened in him.

Anakin dressed quickly. He unbound Obi-Wan's wrists with concentration -- or tenderness? It was hard to tell, but Obi-Wan hoped so -- and returned the sash to its proper place around his waist.

Don't go, Obi-Wan thought pleadingly as Anakin turned, and for a second his heart soared as Anakin hesitated and turned back.

Anakin leaned over Obi-Wan, grabbed his hair in his hand, pulled his face up for a crushing kiss, deep, powerful, devouring, the kind of kiss that left Obi-Wan's lips closing hungrily on empty air as Anakin pulled his face away.

"Because if you do . . ." he said, eyes boring warm and smoky with challenge into the eyes of his new apprentice . . . "You're going to be sorry."

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