Title: Where We Stand
Series: Star Wars AOTC
Author helgaleena firstname.lastname@example.org
Category Slash POV Obi
Subject: Master and padawan share a unique bond that aids them in foiling the attempted asassination of Senator Amidala.
Warnings: possibly tedious recap of TPM
Disclaimer: Lucas is the god of Star Wars and owns everything. I am nothing.
Authors Notes-- contains my theory of Obi-Ani-Padme-Qui
The older Anakin gets, the more beautiful he is. You've seen.
It's as if the desert suns of Tatooine have never left his skin; it stays a shade just a bit lighter than his short padawan locks. Against that skin his eyes are startlingly blue in the light, yet dark against their ivory orbs. The boy's brow has grown into the prominence of manhood, shadowing those eyes and the honey-brown abundant lashes. That nose grew long and straight, but never overlarge, and the lips-- oh, his lips grew, too. They are a tropical efflorescence above that determined jawline. They flash open around his perfect set of teeth-- the former slave has many more reasons to smile, as my padawan; now he is loved.
For padawans are loved. How could they grow straight and true to the Force without it?
I had resentment of him to overcome, when circumstances first brought him to Qui-gon and me, already grown yet in desperate need of mastery. He was obviously a prodigy. He would be six times the Jedi I was; even I could see that. Of course, intellectually I accepted that my own trial for knighthood was very close, that soon I would be having to stand apart from my Master, that Qui-gon was not actually replacing me with this paragon. But still it hurt. I had to make way.
Then came the battle for Naboo. Before my eyes my Master, bulwark and loving security of my childhood, was wasted by a leering Sith. There was no time to adjust to it. Moments later, I did what the Force required. I became what I had already become internally, then used it to take down the monster, to ease my master's passing. His last words elicited my promise to continue his ministry to Anakin. To myself I promised to be worthy of his greatness of heart, to open my own heart to the boy. I didn't know it would be so easy.
Something in the boy had begun to grow during his short time with Qui-gon. Had he remained with his mother, it would never received the proper nourishment. It was that something at the core of the master-padawan bond, purer than mother-love, more akin to the subtle bond our physical being has with the living Force. Ani and I were both abruptly severed from it by his death. We spent a lot of time together alone in our quarters, simply reflecting on that bond, feeling Qui-gon's spirit together, upon that other plane from which we were barred. I think that without my loving arms, that seedling in him would have died of death's pruning. Instead it took root between us. I know we were both thankful. Ever after our link with one another has retained the character of our dear Qui-gon. Through it , we are not two, but three against the darkness. We call upon that bond to stand against confusion and iniquity, outside and within.
We did things that many might judge to be against the rules of the Order. We did them to live, that the Force might live in us. We grew together as Master and Padawan in a way unique to us. The galaxy should be grateful, dammit, for following the higher call of the Force in this, whatever it's labeled. We know where we stand.
Or at least we did, until the return of Senator Amidala...
Ten years ago, he first got to know Padme. So did I, of course; we were all thrown together on Tatooine. To me, she was a kid in Amidala's retinue. He was a kid at the parts dealer's yard. Qui-gon tossed them into our lives as components of the mission we were on. They were fine kids, upstanding examples of the next generation, I supposed. Then suddenly they were so much more, and that was a shock on a par with my Master's death.
All this time, the Queen had been masquerading as one of her own Handmaidens. Padme was really Padme Amidala. That face like a dark lily, those caramel tilted eyes, held the fate of all Naboo. And Anakin, the teddy-bear pod-racing golden boy? He simply saved us all, won the battle for us, and I don't mind saying so, because after all, he's my padawan and I'm proud.
I cannot deny their importance, to me, to the unfolding future, to one another. I feel old just thinking about it. The galaxy's fate is entwined with theirs, and I love them. I wish them the best of the universe. But for now, he is mine.
We are on our way to our new assignment to the Nubian senator's security guard. Look at him, fussing with himself. What is he hoping to find in her, ten years later? I'm sure she is as exquisitely poised as ever; even in her new role, she will always be the Queen who saved her people. He'll be susceptible to her charisma--he stil is a teenager, under all that ability. I hope he keeps his mouth shut for once, so he doesn't embarrass himself. Duty and circumstance, our guard duties, will keep us closer at hand than may be comfortable.
Or maybe she'll be susceptible to his charm; everyone falls for my Anakin. So will Padme. There's a magnetism to him that is only set off by having a master along. In many ways I'm Anakin's accessory, heh. She'll be pleased at how her little buddy has grown.
And she is. And challenged as well. She can't hide it from a Jedi.
I know I'm harsh with him in public more often than I'd like, but what is he thinking here? He's actually contradicting me! Is he trying to impress her? Oh my dear idiot, this is exactly the wrong way to go about that! What's gotten into him? He's presuming on her in a way she's not ready for. He was smitten with her in the first nanosecond, that's all too clear. I have to get him alone.
This is it. Soon we'll be in her antechamber for the night shift. We are grabbing a bite to eat in the catering annex of the embassy.
"Anakin, what the hell did you think you were doing?"
He pushes the last of his bread into his mouth with those elegant fingers. Sullen silence. His eyes flash at me. No use pretending he doesn't know what I mean. He reaches for his kava glass. My hand closes around his wrist. He swallows.
"Master--" His eyes rise to mine.
Now we needn't say a thing aloud. His feelings for her are like a conflagration in his being, set alight alight like a spark on butane. His self-discipline is barely able to contain it. He's actually pleading for my help! The intensity of this love is overwhelming him, overwhelming me. The shock of it is running up my arm where I'm touching him. I feel my breathing accelerate. The raw need, the desire-- his lips---
The catering facility has a bathroom, and it locks. We will handle this together. I embrace him, pressing him backwards, my arms between him and the cold wall tiles. He holds me in return, chin resting on my hair. My little Ani, he's so much taller than me now. Then he tilts his head back against the tiles, breathing fast, eyes on the distance. He isn't thinking of me. I cannot allow this.
I reach up. My fingers knot in his hair, his padawan braid. His eyes return to me. I part those panting lips. I taste their purple lushness, the bread he ate, his teeth sliding under my tongue. He holds me tighter. His fingers knead the back of my robe. He's back with me, back in the moment. His tongue is sopping up the drool around my own. Every breath we take, our chests crash together. I'm hard against him, pressed between those long legs. My other hand is going lower, finding ass under the leather jerkin, pulling it toward me.
He comes up for air. His nostrils flare. My beard is rubbing at the hollow I know is at the base of his throat, behind that collar pulled so tight against the chill of Coruscant. No, it's only cool in comparison with him--he's made of coals. Every breath he takes is a bellows on the flame of him. He remembers me touching that place. He knows what happens when I touch it. I don't have to touch it now. All I have to do it look into those eyes, see the shine on those parted lips.
Now both my hands have his ass. Through the pants I can feel those mounds, rock hard one moment and malleable, kneadable the next. My fingers worship them. My eyes are still on his. His arousal is growing. He has returned to me. Anakin. Beloved. You are still mine, Padawan. This is your place.
His mouth is growing closer, too. It looms over me, and his tongue begins to circle my ear. Yes, remember my taste. I lick my own lips, find a waistband and slip hands in. They are scalded by his skin--then find purchase again. There, his secret entrance. He groans aloud and bites at my hair.
I am brushing fingertips lightly over the corrugations of him. His legs begin to tremble. Suddenly he is holding us up via two fists in the front of my tunic. My knees are starting to flex, my hips to thrust. My arousal is getting raw on the inside of my trousers. I don't care. I am making a good rhythm. It echoes our thudding hearts.
He has begun licking my forehead, my upper lip, my cheeks, the bridge of my nose, my eyelids, drinking my tears--was I crying? I spread his cheeks further apart, both my legs between his now. His cock is like a spear at my gut. Yes, put it in.
My shoulders are gently pressed downward. His belt buckle unclicks itself with a pop. My hands come around to grasp that gold and violet shaft. My beard juts out to tickle at the other hairs there. The treasure they hide is contracting, relaxing---his hips start to move in a gentle counterpoint to the tremblig of his legs.
I take the tip and lave it well. My tongue goes lower down. My nails scrach delicately along his rocking pelvis. Yes, there is a tiny arousal drip to taste. I suck it up worshipfully. This is my Anakin's essence. He moans again.
I look up. He is gazing down on me like a klieg light. His lips are swollen like a ripe fruit. His tunics hang open to reveal his smooth, heaving chest. A surge of energy seems to leap from the toes of his feet, right up his spine and out his eyes. I am blinded. His hands, clenched into the shoulders of my tunic, suddenly lift me up to that mouth. I am straddling that shaft. I send a Force touch to remove my own belt, so our chests can be in contact. As we kiss, he responds with enthusiasm to the brush of my chest hairs on his skin. He has an arm behind me and is lowering me to the cool floor. Oh, my padawan is strong. He is showing his control now. I am so thankful.
As my back touches the floor our kiss ends. I am so proud of him. He is gazing at me tenderly, for I am his object of reverence now. I am caressing his nipples with feathery brushes of my hands. He lowers my trousers the rest of the way,and my love for him stands evident.
He begins to stroke me, his own groin tight against mine. Exudate leaks from the end and he raises the damp fingers to his lips, sucks them clean. In balance now, we both pause to steady our breathing.
We are standing on a plain, stretched out between us by the imanence of our desire. As if he had never left, Qui-gon is there. This is our bond. This is where we stand.
I am exploring that plain--- it has corners. Two are Anakin and me. One is Qui-gon, and one is -- Padme? I stare in her direction. How can this be? She's not Force-sensitive, is she? certainly not Force-trained. How can she be participating in our moment of vision?
She must be sleeping, dreaming in her chambers. That is how she can be here. Her presence manifests as a perfumed lotus, her namesake, not yet unfolded. And I see what will do the unfolding. Not me, not Qui, but him. My Anakin. Qui-gon smiles at me; you mean our Anakin.
At this moment the light in Ani's eyes is like a sun. It spills in all directions-- of couse it will also shine on Padme. Qui-gon turns to him, basking in it as I do. I feel the whisper in my mind--Chosen One. And he is looking at me, his Master. I am so happy---
I come back to myself with a shudder. My ass is cold against the floor. Anakin's eyes are shut. His lovely neck is arched back, exposing his adam's apple. How I love to worry at that lump with my mouth--- but not at the moment. He's barely breathing. His lips are forming a word--- padme---
Like a dagger it hits me, right in the heart. I suck in a harsh breath. I can't go there. Tears prick the edges of my eyes. I let the breath out. My arousal is still there, my padawan's hand still around it. Now it's just a bothersome ache. I can't bear to go on to ease it in our usual fashion. Getting my elbows under me, I gently pull myself away from his fingers. Startled, he opens his eyes; he's back. And he knows what he's done.
I can't blame him. I can't blame me. It's just how it is. I sit up, shrug up my trousers, do the fastenings. His manhood, protruding like a beautiful bloom below us, is wilting.
"Padawan." We look at each other, determining where we stand. We have come ten years together. No matter what, we have farther to go.
The light of his eyes is beginning to glisten through prismatic tears. We get to our knees. I fold my arms around him. His arms, hands empty now, are at his sides. He takes several shuddering breaths in my arms. This is growing up; this is moving away.
I am annoyed; I don't like it. First Qui-gon, now Padme, pulling out at us, forming a plane between our four points, prying us apart, setting a stage-- for what? Among other things, for an old Obi-wan, alone with the Force. I know, Force knows, nothing stays the same. I'm making some tears too.
At last, he hugs me back. Those eyes are banked fires now, the tears dried without being shed. Even kneeling he's taller than me! A gentle smile plays over his lips. He rearranges himself into his pants, snaps the belt buckle. I let him pull shut my tunics for me, close my belt as well. We stand. My tears did spill, and he dries them softly away with his sleeve.
He knows I'm still hard, still aching; I can barely walk. Will it always be this way? I'll let him go up to duty first, deal with it somehow---
Suddenly I am slammed into the wall, a yard away. He's Force-pushed me! A hundred bad memories of captivity in my youth, on missions with Qui-gon, bubble into my mind--- and Anakin knows it. He's looking very sly, up under his brows like that. I could spit. He's smiling!
It is Anakin who spits, though, into his hand. In one quick stride he's against me, the other hand ripping my belt back open. I am bruisingly kissed, those shining teeth grinding against my lips, till I am gasping. He's got me by the shaft and he's pumping. His legs are spreading mine apart. One foot is hooking around behind my knee, trying to topple me; I clutch at him for balance. I am losing control, like in a lightsaber practice session when my concentration has slipped. He's going to impale me--my fingers spasm open---ah!
I am gasping for breath all over again. He's licking me off his fingers, the brat! My knees are about to give out, but he's got me firmly around the waist. His Force control hasn't wavered a millimeter. Pressed against my spread thighs. Hard again.
I am trying to still the whirling in my head. Little lights flash inside my eyeballs. He takes my panting mouth with his again and I taste-- me. He's giving part of me back to me, helping. Oh my Padawan, so good, so sweet, so devious. He swirls that flavor of me all around my mouth. He dries his fingers in my chest hairs. He inches me up the wall. I am impaled again, my damn trousers suspended between us, trapping my legs, my feet to either side of his elbows.
Yes, I was ready for this. He pauses anyway. Our eyes are locked. He knows I'm ready, damn him, and he's getting horny off my rage. Now his big hands are on my ass, opening me as I had opened him. But this time, it's not a tickle. Those fingers are going to leave marks if we don't heal them afterward. Bit by bit, he's lowering me onto him. And it's searing, it's growing. it's cascading, it's exploding---
It's his place. He can feel it. I am contracting involuntarily around him, every hair on my body standing up, my cock standing up, pulsing to that same rhythm. And he takes up that rhythm, synchronizing his breathing with it, moving almost imperceptibly at first and then farther in, out, in, out. My mouth is filling with drool; I am looking at my beautiful padawan as he fills me.
It is as if my desire for those lips is what triggers him to smile. He's grinning widely now, enjoying this. In and out, faster as our hearts beat faster, he's salivating himself; I can almost taste it-- I reach for his hair with both hands, capture those lips, drink the nectar.
He comes shuddering into me as if it would fountain up into my heart. We cry out into each other's mouths, the vibration separating us for nanoseconds before our lips are joined together again. Our heads roll to each other's shoulders.
My wetness, much less this time, is inside the tent of my trousers. We look down at the flimsy partition they make. We both laugh.
The hand fresher in here can handle this situation.
Back to work now. We know where we stand. That is our strength.
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