FicWad

Bail looks very different in Jedi robes. Not /wrong/, exactly. Just . . . extremely different.

As a young Padawan, Anakin’s color choices for his uniform had almost always mirrored the darker, greyish taupe of Qui-Gon’s tunics, his clothing all growing steadily darker in color and the outermost layer of fabric in his tabards eventually becoming replaced with leather or synthleather as he grew older and it became increasingly obvious that he not only needed the extra layer of protection (and welcomed the heat that the heavier clothing generated) but would be far less likely to require as many extra changes of clothes as he otherwise would’ve inevitably needed if his uniforms had been made out of lighter, brighter, or warmer hued fabric. The dark, almost dingy taupes showed oil, dirt, and grime much less than the creamy tan and gold-blushed ecru and warm cinnamon of Obi-Wan’s uniform, as, eventually, did the various shades of brown so dark that they shaded towards black. Anakin’s desire for warmer, brighter hues, like the ones in Obi-Wan’s uniform, had been almost a physical craving, and the year the Clone Wars began he had indulged himself in an outer tunic in a slightly darker shade than Obi-Wan’s cinnamon robe, but otherwise he had made himself avoid the more inviting colors, for fear of making either a fool or a nuisance of himself . . . or of giving away just how much he wanted to be like Obi-Wan. Things changed, for both of them, with the realization of their love. Anakin abandoned his somber near-blacks with a sense of almost desperate relief, and Obi-Wan found his wardrobe reverting to the lighter mix of shades and less stifling cuts of their years as Master and Padawan. So if someone had asked him, beforehand, what kind of wardrobe Bail would be likely to adopt, as a Padawan, Anakin would have guessed that he’d go with a cut more like that of a Padawan or young Knight (since both of his Masters favor a length of tunic that falls well short of the knees) and with a warm, bright color scheme favoring golden and red-tinged hues.

Bail, though, eventually comes out of the dressing room in a uniform that looks as if it’s been modeled on Mace Windu’s with a color scheme borrowed at least in part from Anakin’s days as a new Knight. Less than a handsbreadth of dark chocolate fabric show between the fairly light, almost tweedy brown tunic and tabards and the almost reddish brown leather of his knee-high boots, the higher neckline and skin-hugging long sleeves of his inner tunic (which are quite noticeable within the loose, lighter-hued long sleeves of his outer tunic whenever he moves his hands) are a dull shade of brown that reminds Anakin unpleasantly of old, dead leaves floating in water, and his over-robe is a brown so dark that it is almost black (though it is, to Anakin’s relief, at least cut like a normal Jedi robe – if with those oddly huge, almost floor-touching sleeves that Mace favors – unlike the far more cape-like garment that he used to wear). It doesn’t seem as if the darker, duller colors should suit him, but the slightly tousled hair curling down around the neckline of both of his tunics is glossily blue-black against the matte darkness of the fabrics and the smooth skin of his face and neck is a vibrant, almost coppery-tinged deep bronze that stands out, warm and alive, against the unremitting dullness of his uniform. He looks . . . oddly right in these clothes, and Anakin finds himself shrugging and smiling at a slightly bewildered looking but also smiling Obi-Wan, both of them quickly turning back to Bail to smile at him in approval, giving him a sign that they accept the fact that Bail has made his choice and find it suitable. Bail gives them such a bright smile in return that Anakin finds himself blinking, a little startled by the intensity of it and the emotion that he can feel welling up from Bail along their Master-Padawan bond. There’s something a slightly unsettling about being the focus of so much intense utter satisfaction when Obi-Wan isn’t the one feeling the emotion, and Obi-Wan goes very still in his chair, the companionable shoulder that’s been knocking against Anakin’s stiffening slightly in shock, apparently as startled as Anakin.

Before Obi-Wan can use that surprise as an excuse to draw back in on himself, sliding back down into calmly detached aloofness, Anakin tightens his grasp on his hand, giving his loosening fingers a squeeze, before rising to his feet, tugging until Obi-Wan comes up with him. He lets Obi-Wan gently slide his fingers loose from Anakin’s grasp only to wind his arm around Obi-Wan’s waist, his hand set firmly on his hip, pulling him against him and flooding their part of the bond with love and a wordless recommendation to relax until he can feel the returning tension seeping back out of Obi-Wan’s body. “Those suit you, Bail. You’ll want to get several of everything, except the boots. Those we’ll take you to get personally fitted for, unless you’ve brought some with you that you think would be appropriate.”

“I brought those that I own that are brown, but I wasn’t sure they’d be acceptable. They have no hidden compartments, as these do, and the soles are all generally less rugged,” Bail explains. “I’m not sure I’d have as much traction.”

“If they’ve been fit specifically to you, though, they’ll be much gentler on your feet and legs than any of these. The footwear kept in here is all for backup, so Jedi and Padawans will have something suitable looking to wear if anything happens to their primary, personally fitted boots. We spend a lot of time on our feet, you know. It’s best to take care of them as much as possible,” Anakin replies, shrugging a bit. “We can always take them to get new soles fitted to them, if they’re already broken in and everything. It’ll be easier on you, in the long run.”

“We could do that later today, if you wish,” Obi-Wan offers with a small but warm smile. “And if there’s anything you think you’ll need a few more of that they don’t have stockpiled here somewhere, we can leave a request for the quartermasters to fill.”

Bail looks a little startled by the offer. “Aren’t there people you’ll wish to visit, today?”

“They can wait until tomorrow, Bail. You are our Padawan, and our duty, first, is to you,” Obi-Wan replies with mock sternness, softening the reply with another small smile.

Bail ducks his head, as if embarrassed, but that sense of absolute satisfaction surges out along the bond again, belying his somewhat shamefaced stance. “Yes, Master,” he acknowledges, his broad shoulders inclining in a slight bow, forming what would seem like a perfect example of obedience, if not for the powerful thrum of utterly content, almost overwhelmingly immense gratification flooding from his end of the bond.

Do you think he realizes he’s projecting? Anakin silently asks Obi-Wan along the bond, careful not to let any hint of the communication bleed through to Bail’s end of the bond or to let it show on his face.

It’s only along our bond. He’s not projecting past his shields; those are still holding just fine, Obi-Wan just as carefully replies.

Ah. Then I suppose it doesn’t matter so much. In fact, this might be a good thing. It’ll make it easier for us to tell if anything’s really wrong.

True enough. Obi-Wan manages, somehow, to nod without nodding, and then sets off across the room to where Bail is still bowing, eyes cast downwards, tugging Anakin along with him by the hand. He reaches out and puts his right hand on Bail’s left shoulder, squeezing gently as he pushes him back fully upright. He’s so used to Bail towering over him (more, even, than Anakin has come to) that it’s a shock to find him merely tall instead of seemingly larger than life itself. Flicking a swift sideways glance at Anakin, he finds Anakin’s eyes easily on a level to or perhaps even a hair above Bail’s, and has to restrain himself physically from staring. He knows that he is taller than he had been, and that Anakin is too, a little, but it’s still discombobulating to see obvious proof of it. Nevertheless, this change certainly isn’t Bail’s fault – it isn’t as if he’s deliberately shrinking, after all – and they’re supposed to be helping their Padawan settle in and feel more at home, not possibly alienating him (or, worse, worrying him) by demanding he stand back to back with each of them in turn and hold very still while the other physically measures them against one another to see how great the change actually is. So he carefully places his surprise aside to deal with later, smiles at Bail warmly, and asks, “Would you like to come out with us now, and grab a late lunch at Dex’s? I’m sure Bant would love an excuse to reacquaint herself with the twins and would volunteer to watch them while we’re gone.”

Bail gives them another one of those blinding smiles, effectively agreeing without saying a thing. Then he inclines his head politely and seals the matter by saying, “I would be honored.”

***

“You are a devious man, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Who, me?”

“Yes, /you/, love.”

“And may I ask just what it is that I done to prompt this declaration?”

“You timed this, somehow – and without me even noticing! – so that when we got back from Dex’s, Mace would be free and just happen to be there in that corridor so he could overhear us talking to Bail about the kind of courses and training classes the Temple usually holds and that we expect will still be being organized for newer initiates, like him. And you somehow got Mace to offer to start giving Bail a grand tour of the classrooms and training areas while we went ahead to check on the twins, so we’d have time to get this,” Anakin declares, emphatically waving the rather huge, sparkling blue Nubian starfire adamant, “and get a piece of it ready for Bail. What I want to know,” he adds with a frown as they continue on their way back to their suite, “is how you managed to do it without me seeing you comm Mace or feeling you reach out through the Force to say something to him.”

Obi-Wan’s lips quirk to the shape of a small, mysterious smile. “Are you sure he didn’t just happen to be there and feel like offering to show Bail around some? He and Bail have had a fairly good working relationship, these past few years.”

Anakin shakes his head sharply, decisively, as they reach the end of the corridor and make their way into the next one over. “Doesn’t scan. He’d offer to show us all around, so the two of us could see any changes and hear all about the new classes, too, instead of practically taking Bail’s arm and leading him off for a solo tour while we’re dismissed to go check on the twins and maybe fetch them out to join us, if they aren’t asleep. Which they probably are, at this time of day, unless Bant’s playing with them.”

“Well, then, how do you think I managed to arrange all of this, without saying a word?”

Anakin shoots him a dirty look. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking, now would I?”

Obi-Wan laughs, deeply amused, the sound of his unabashed good humor – so utterly without any attempt to stifle either its mirth or its volume – turning more than one head as they make their way down the hallway, bright-eyed initiates (who look at the two of them as if gazing at the sun and moon) and serene-faced former Jedi Knights and Masters (their specific ranks yet to be reassigned, under the new system) following them with their gazes, prompting Anakin to tighten his arm a fraction around Obi-Wan’s waist and grin like mad when Obi-Wan responds by snuggling a little bit closer, hugging Anakin back with the arm that, until then, had been slung only loosely around Anakin’s hips. Anakin doesn’t know if his steady encouragement is helping Obi-Wan to relax more in the presence of others or if this is just a holdover from the friendly, relaxed atmosphere of Dex’s Diner, but the glow of joy in his chest won’t let him do anything other than beam happily and take full advantage of the moment, leaning in towards him even more as they make a turn in the corridor and brushing Obi-Wan’s smiling mouth with his. He hopes that he’ll be allowed to steal a few brief kisses as they’re walking along, before Obi-Wan remembers where they are and pulls back, and so is stunned when Obi-Wan reaches out with his left hand to catch his shoulder, turning Anakin more fully around to him and bringing them to a halt in the middle of the hallway, the warm hand on his shoulder sliding up to the nape of his neck to guide Anakin down into the kiss, pressing them firmly together. The feel of Obi-Wan’s lips under his is intoxicating. Anakin forgets, rapidly, where they are and why, until the pale blue stone drops with a thump at their feet, hands needed for other purposes, one arm strong across Obi-Wan’s back, urging him up on his toes, up into Anakin’s body, his mouth, the other hand buried in his glorious hair, bodies tangled together heedless of any who might be watching.

When they finally part, Anakin is lightheaded and panting after much-needed air, and his hands tremble where they rest, riding dangerously low in the small of Obi-Wan’s back and gently cradling the back of his head, fingers threaded through his hair. “What – what was that for?” he asks, gasping a little, resting his forehead heavily against Obi-Wan’s upturned forehead, pressing up against him there in an effort to avoid doing so where his traitorous body would so much rather seek after the sweetness of pressure and friction.

“Just for being you,” Obi-Wan replies, smiling up at him and sliding his right hand around from the nape of Anakin’s neck to trail his fingertips up Anakin’s neck and stroke the backs of his fingers along the sweep of his cheekbone. “For wanting an explanation for Mace’s offer, instead of simply accepting the way out that it represented.”

“What, you mean for being suspicious?” Anakin blinks, feeling more than a little bit confused at the implication (though to be honest he’s not entirely sure his brain is really working all the way again yet).

“For being /you/.” Obi-Wan rubs his thumb back and forth, not quite idly, the sensation of the calloused pad dragging along his cheek causing a heavy warm feeling to blossom in the pit of Anakin’s stomach. “I’m not sure what I’d ever do without you, Anakin.”

Anakin frowns and pushes a little further into the embrace, leaning into Obi-Wan’s touch, their foreheads pressing tightly together. “You won’t ever have to find out, if I have anything to say about it.”

“I know. But I thought you might wish to hear it, all the same.”

Anakin smiles in answer, radiant with uncomplicated joy, that rapidly unfurling warmth wreathing its way up his spine, blooming in his chest and bringing enough heat to his face that he blushes just enough for a faint flush of red to color his cheeks, the telltale hue darkening slightly under the steady stroke of Obi-Wan’s hand. “I love you, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan’s soft smile spreads into a delighted grin that crinkles up the edges of his eyes, his fingertips continuing to caress the side of Anakin’s face, the pads of his fingers outlining the curving edge of an ear, the prominent angle of a jaw, the strong clean line of Anakin’s long neck, and he asks, only a little bit teasingly, “Deviousness and all?”

“Definitely deviousness and all. We need somebody who can look beyond the surface and find less obvious ways of getting things done!” Anakin fervently declares.

That caressing thumb slows to a halt, this shifts as Obi-Wan moves to gently cup the entire side of Anakin’s face. “I love you, Anakin Skywalker. I have not said that often enough, in the past,” he notes, face and voice suddenly solemn.

“It isn’t – That’s not really your fault,” Anakin stammers, caught off-balance by the conversation’s sudden change in tone.

“Perhaps not,” Obi-Wan acknowledges gravely. “And perhaps this isn’t the most opportune time to mention it. Still. I thought I should, since the opportunity presented itself.”

Anakin’s lips quirk upwards slightly, involuntarily, and he notes, humorously, “Every time I think I have you figured out, you do something like this, that makes me see you in a new light. You’re a closet romantic, love, aren’t you?”

A slight shrug brings them so close together that their lips almost touch. “Perhaps.”

The exhale that forms the word feels like a palpable pressure against Anakin’s mouth, and he has to hold himself very still to keep from licking at his lips, to see if he can capture the word in his mouth (or at least bridge the distance between himself and Obi-Wan again). “I think that you are,” he carefully asserts instead, “but I also think that this might be a conversation best saved for later. We don’t want to keep Mace or our Padawan waiting too long.”

“They do fully expect us to check on the twins.”

Anakin smiles (carefully, carefully, to keep from leaning forward), struggling to keep the desire rising in him under control, to keep himself from tackling Obi-Wan right there, in the open hallway where anyone might come along and see them, not really all that concerned for himself (especially not now that they’re so close to their destination and the corridor is entirely empty but for themselves) but trying, for Obi-Wan’s sake, not to give in to temptation. “True. But not to stay and play with them, if they’re awake, instead of just bringing them along with us.”

“This shouldn’t take long.”

Anakin’s brain instantly tries to white out, at that, far too many implications involving bridging the slight distance between them instantly attempting to crowd out all other thoughts. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, trying to recenter himself, but a shudder escapes him, bringing their mouths so close together that he can practically taste the heated kiss that his body aches so relentlessly to claim. He wants to say something about this being a bad idea and to tell Obi-Wan again that he doesn’t need to try to prove anything to him, that he loves Obi-Wan and is going to love him no matter what and Obi-Wan doesn’t need to try so hard to make Anakin happy or proud of him, but Obi-Wan is standing so close to him, so very /close/, every exhale of breath washing over Anakin in a scalding cloud, and he wants this, this closeness, and more, so badly! “Master . . . ” the word escapes him as a breathy moan, answered by a low, throaty chuckle, and Anakin’s eyes fly open, shocked, in time to see a smiling Obi-Wan push forward, going on tiptoe to bridge the short distance between them and capture Anakin’s mouth with his own.

Anakin lets out a gasp of surprise at the boldness of the kiss, his left hand sliding down from the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck to tighten around his shoulder, bunching up the fabric of Obi-Wan’s tunics under his grasping fingers. Anakin’s mouth is open under Obi-Wan’s and Obi-Wan takes full advantage, tracing the tip of his tongue along Anakin’s full lower lip and then darting it inside Anakin’s mouth to taste that as well. Anakin tastes lightly of the sugared fruit he ate for dessert at Dex’s and, more intensely, of heat, and love, and power, and light, the Force sparking within him like bubbles of effervescent liquor, sweetly intoxicating. His tongue rises to join Obi-Wan’s quickly, rolling together over and over in a heated wet muscled slide, instinctively seeking after the same unearthly sweetness, flashing and popping like fizz among the deep, rich, almost earthy tang of spiced tea and sweet, chocolate-laced shortbread from their late lunch, lingering in the recesses of Obi-Wan’s mouth like hidden treasures. And it’s a good thing that they’re already fairly close to their quarters, because when Anakin rubs his tongue up along the sensitive ridges of Obi-Wan’s palate, he groans and arches up towards Anakin so powerfully that the motion is almost a lunge upward, causing Anakin’s right hand to slip off of Obi-Wan’s back, the loss of contact startling him into a far too hasty motion to regain that contact, so that his hand rises back up in such a way as to slide underneath the fabric of Obi-Wan’s tunics and comes to rest solidly grasping hold of the fullness of one firm cheek, the barrier of cloth between Anakin’s bare skin and Obi-Wan’s flesh so reduced by the absence of the heavy drape of tunics that the growing heat between them instantly ignites in blazing explosion of undeniable love and inexorable desire, hands scrabbling for purchase and bodies straining together powerfully, pushing and pulling and striving for more and more closeness, for togetherness.

Their feet know the way. Twined around each other, already working at the fastenings for their clothes, they proceed, hurtling towards the privacy of their rooms and completion, half a thought spared for the stone that knocks against their feet and nearly sends them sprawling down to the hallway floor, if only to get it out of their way, the brilliant blue gem flying out of the path their entangled legs are blindly taking, floating down the corridor to strike the controls that will open the door for them before tumbling down to the floor again, out of the way, just far enough past the edge of the foyer and into the common room to be sure that it will remain safely out of the way. The same barest flicker of a thought responsible for moving the fallen jewel then orders the glasslike transparisteel along the windows and double-doors opening onto the balcony lining the far left wall of the common room’s wall to darken to a densely nonreflective colorless hue, the command serving as a protection against any possible violation of privacy, even though they are so far up within the Temple (and the space bracketing the areas of the Temple reserved for living quarters is essentially off-bounds to the kind of air traffic that could conceivably permit someone passing by to see something they shouldn’t) that the precaution is largely unnecessary. They are still several shuffling steps from the open doorway, though, when Anakin’s right hand reluctantly relinquishes its forceful grip to slide up around under the edge of Obi-Wan’s tunics, moving with increasing eagerness and urgency to curve momentarily around a stiffly prominent hard shape (prompting a groan muffled by his blanketing mouth) before edging upwards just a bit more to work long fingers around the clasp of a belt, the motion canting their hips together and prompting a noise from Anakin that’s closer to a growl than a moan. Belt and sash eventually fall to the floor just inside the doorway, slithering away and landing with a muffled thump so close to it that, upon sliding shut, the door just misses striking the edge of the belt’s metal buckle.

Calloused fingertips eagerly thrust aside the overlapping edges of layered fabric to touch Obi-Wan’s abdomen, stroking across the bare skin, eagerly exploring the rippling hardness of sharply defined muscles, before sliding up to push the tunics back out of the way, stripping them off of Obi-Wan a little at a time (the motion hampered by the fact that Obi-Wan is clinging to him so closely, his left hand moving automatically for Anakin’s belt, too, unconsciously reaching to undo it even as his right arm pulls Anakin’s body in close to his, his left hand snaking between them to pull away Anakin’s belt, disarrange the sash beneath it until it starts to unwind of its own accord, and then move back just enough to let them both slide free), pushing them back away from his chest, down off of his shoulders, and shoving until the bunching of the fabric becomes binding, hampering his movements until he finally unwinds from Anakin enough to let him get first one arm and then the other free, letting the tunics fall in a careless tangle of discarded fabric onto the floor. Anakin whimpers helplessly into Obi-Wan’s mouth as his newly freed arms come back around him, his left hand sliding up under his tunics, lingering over the quivering muscles of Anakin’s firm, smooth stomach, and then gliding across that rippling expanse to curve around Anakin’s waist, tugging him closer. His right hand he places on Anakin’s shoulder, impatiently pushing the tunics back and away so that he can touch the golden skin of Anakin’s shoulder, petting and stroking at the skin until Anakin moans and moves his left hand back away from Obi-Wan so that he can slip his arm out of both layers of tunic. Obi-Wan is more than happy to help, pressing closer as Anakin twists his upper body to shrug out of the fabric, and then they kiss for a long moment afterwards, Anakin’s chest half-uncovered, the layers of cloth creeping further and further away across his back as Obi-Wan slides his hand back around Anakin, as they continue to move further into the room, until finally his arm is circled tight across Anakin’s back, his hand impatiently shoving the fabric over more and more, desperate for more skin to skin contact.

When Obi-Wan reaches across Anakin to grab at the tunics with his left hand, peeling them back until they come down off of Anakin’s other shoulder, his right hand is free to bring back around Anakin’s body. He grins into their kiss as he glides his fingers back up around to and then down over Anakin’s left shoulder and onto his chest, teasingly circling the calloused pad of his thumb around the tight, hard peak of Anakin’s already over-sensitized nipple. Anakin jerks against him helplessly, his hips snapping into a hard thrust up against Obi-Wan’s pelvis, his breath running so ragged that he pants uncontrollably into Obi-Wan’s scalding mouth, too short of breath to even moan. Obi-Wan continues to circle his thumb, slowly coming closer and closer, until, just when he’s on the verge of touching the outer edge of the aureole, he shifts his hand just a little, to bring his forefinger around to the other side of that pebbled and highly sensitive skin, pincering the two digits until the nipple is firmly clamped between two calloused pads of flesh, squeezing and tugging and finally giving a ruthless sharp twist that makes Anakin’s entire body convulse, slamming his hips up against Obi-Wan’s and jerking his upper body into an arch that throws his head back on the rigidly snapped column of his throat, a sound half soundless exhale and half keening scream exploding from Anakin’s squared mouth. Unnoticed by them, the Force shivers around them with the intensity of the explosion of arousal between them. Anakin’s voice is a rough, almost guttural moan as he gasps, “Master – Obi-Wan – /please/,” his hips desperately rolling and churning against Obi-Wan’s as the pinching pressure upon his nipple returns. Obi-Wan, though, just closes his eyes and glides his left hand across the gloriously warm skin of Anakin’s mostly bare torso to the small of Anakin’s back, pushing Anakin back forward against him and covering his mouth, capturing the inarticulate moan prompted by the pressure and friction of that contact in between their sealed lips, pressing firmly up against Anakin and smiling into the kiss, tasting a little bit of himself in Anakin’s mouth.

After several long moments, Obi-Wan reaches up to pull Anakin’s greedily grasping hand away from his shoulder, slipping Anakin’s tunics down off of that arm, too, and letting the fabric fall to the ground, leaving Anakin gloriously half naked before him. He leans in and buries his face in the crook of Anakin’s neck and newly bared shoulder, tracing over the collarbone with his tongue, tasting the oddly sweet clean skin and biting, just a little, at the straining line of tendon, making Anakin shiver and shudder helplessly against him, making soft, pleading noises, lost in a place beyond words as Obi-Wan flicks Anakin’s turgidly stiff nipple with his thumb, scratching at it lightly with the nail, and slips his right hand down low across Anakin’s back, skimming lower and lower and finally pressing in tight to slide beneath the material of his trousers, strong fingers pressing in suggestively, making Anakin gasp and mewl, almost as if in pain. Fingertips hardened and roughed by battle and constant ’saber practice caress hidden skin with an almost incongruous delicacy, skating over soft, vulnerable skin. Anakin’s head falls forward, down onto Obi-Wan’s right shoulder, muffling his groans against Obi-Wan’s flesh, mouthing the thin skin urgently, too clumsy with need for proper kissing, as Obi-Wan’s clever tongue licks and curls along Anakin’s neck, tracing wet designs against his jugular. Several long moments later, Obi-Wan’s light touch dips down lower still, two fingertips trailing along the recess between two tight globes of flesh, pressing in gentle but inexorably, parting the flesh steadily but sinking no deeper than the width of the fingers, though Anakin moans, half sobbing as his hips buck forward uncontrollably and then press desperately back, trying to encourage that touch to go deeper, to press all the way home. Obi-Wan’s other hand, though, instantly slides down to grip Anakin’s waist, thumb dipping into the sharp recess between hip and belly, holding fast to him with such inexorable strength that Anakin finds himself trapped, unable either to move back into the hand he wants so much to thrust more deeply into him or forward up against the hard press of Obi-Wan’s pelvis. The sound that rises from deep within his chest sounds like anguish, even muffled against the flesh of Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

Obi-Wan raises his mouth from the joint of Anakin’s neck and tilts his head up, moving until his breath washes over Anakin’s ear in a searing rush of moist air, his lips hovering less than a millimeter from the lobe. “Hush, love. Our time here is limited. We can only do so much. I can only read you so clearly. I need you to tell me what you most want of me.”

The noise Anakin makes is rumbling, low, guttural, animalistic, almost violent. When he finally manages to speak, he does not sound like himself. “You. In me. /Please/.”

Obi-Wan leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Anakin’s ear, making him shiver almost convulsively. The torturous hand slides upwards, withdrawing, gliding around until it mirrors the position of the other, thumbs bracketed in identical chiseled indentations between torso and leg. Anakin groans with loss, the sound transmuting into something sharper, keener, more filled with pleasure, as Obi-Wan slides his hands slowly but steadily down, hooking his thumbs underneath the edges of Anakin’s pants and tugging, gently but constantly, so that the material creeps down Anakin’s hips until finally it catches on an unyielding shape, revealing only the very beginning of a silky thatch of curly dark blond hair. Anakin shudders, gasping, as Obi-Wan strokes his fingers against Anakin’s golden skin, sensuously tracing the lines of muscle across and down, gradually slipping his fingers under the material until finally his left hand pulls away the fabric enough to allow his right hand to curve around an insistent shape of aching hardness, drawing the flesh carefully free (and eventually releasing it to spring to stiff attention against Anakin’s stomach, an agonized groan of loss wracking his body at the loss of the snug hand upon him) while his left hand continues to drag the entrapping material down. Obi-Wan’s tongue reaches out to the lobe of Anakin’s ear, lips following to close around it in a burning kiss, and he nibbles and strokes and sucks on that tender flesh as he releases his hold on Anakin’s trousers. With nothing left to hold them up, they fall down, sliding down trembling things and bunching loosely, uselessly, around the confining press of boots that rise to just below the knees. But that’s alright, because they’ve managed to cross enough of the room that the couch is just /there/, and all it takes is strong hands rising to his shoulders, twisting him around in the right direction, to get him to turn, and move, and lay his hands down across the back of the sofa, bending him over slightly, invitingly, just enough to make a difference.

After that comes a slight susurrus of shifting fabric, a few faint whispers of movement, and then bare thighs are sliding in between Anakin’s legs, nudging them further apart, making room for a slim muscled body to slip in close, a heated, rigid length of flesh pressing insistently up into Anakin’s backside. And then hands curl around his chest, lovingly stroking his touch-starved flesh from the highly sensitive skin of his armpits all the way down to his slightly bent thighs. Eventually, a hand rises to gather up his loose curls, gently moving them out of the way, so that soft lips press lovingly against the back of his neck, and Anakin doesn’t dare move as a calloused palm rubs at his belly, sliding in a thin film of sweat down over his skin and massaging his rippling abdominal muscles, only the lightest touches alighting on the hard flesh that strains so desperately for touch as that palm circles, tracing the patterns of muscles, accidental brushes occurring here and there only because Anakin’s long length is standing at such painfully straight attention that the flushed head bobs where Obi-Wan’s hand occasionally passes, and Anakin would have jumped each time at the jolt of contact if not for the strong arms encircling him. As it is, Anakin’s heart beats faster, pounding rapidly in his chest until his head swims and his vision blurs, excitement and anticipation flooding his veins with an urgent desire to move that he does not quite dare obey, for fear of ruining the moment. His patience is rewarded when the hand at the nape of his neck slips down, down, strong fingers kneading gently at the flesh of his buttocks, and then the fingers of Obi-Wan’s right hand are back where they were before, only this time, /this time/, there is no material in the way, and they spread him gently but inexorably apart, warm, dry fingertips pushing, spreading, making way for something far thicker, a blunt rounded head, hard and hot and just a little bit sticky, pressing urgently up against him, nosing firmly at the puckered opening revealed by those careful fingers.

Then there’s nothing but the incredible feeling of slow burning pressure pushing inside him, skin slipping and catching and sliding and pressing into a tight, hot, oddly slick channel, the pleasure so intense as Obi-Wan gradually moves forward, slowly moving in until the front of his body comes to rest flush against Anakin’s back, that he almost screams, a noise like a keening sob catching in the back of his throat. When Obi-Wan’s left hand curls purposefully up around his body to slide up his chest and find his nipples while his right hand curves down around him to grasp the rigid length so recently ignored in favor of his stomach, stroking from root to tip in a tight glide of motion that ends with a calloused thumb circling around the sensitive ridge of flesh below the flared head before rising to press with authority across a bead of moisture gathering at the rounded tip, Anakin gives in to the pressure rising in his chest and arches his whole body, slamming himself back against Obi-Wan, and throws back his head screams. There is pleasure everywhere at once then – the sharp ecstasy of clever fingers circling and pinching at his nipples; the all but overwhelming bliss of a stroking hand making a tight channel for straining flesh; the indescribably pleasurable pressure of hot hardness plundering dark, secret places, firm touches to a certain spot within setting off explosions of sensation so extreme that they are almost pain; and the beautifully intimate hot gusts of panting moist breaths washing raggedly over his neck as lips and tongue and teeth make themselves known, staking inviolable claims right at the base of his spine, while sweat-slippery skin rubs, over and over, up against his bowed back and wide-spread, slightly bent legs – a frenzied explosion of heat and pressure and friction and (/Force!/) euphoria, building with each movement, both within and without, rising to such a fevered pitch that it feels as if his body will burst from the effort of containing it all.

Anakin trembles underneath and against Obi-Wan, groaning and gasping, painful noises catching sometimes in the back of his throat on particularly firm upstrokes (especially as Obi-Wan begins to rotate his hips as he’s moving, the rolling motion translating to a corkscrewing plunge deep within Anakin), eyes squeezed shut, helplessly tight, as Obi-Wan moves within him. The building pleasure is so acute that it’s all but unbearable. Unable to do anything but move, feel, want, need, Anakin ceases to hear, see, or even sense anything in existence beyond Obi-Wan and his own needful flesh. Every single nerve in his body is electrified and humming, the white-hot spark of connection between them radiating waves of sensation that lock them together in frenzied blaze of all-consuming heat and motion. Obi-Wan pushes forward and Anakin shoves back to catch each and every movement, bodies clashing wildly together, motions increasingly fast and furious, the noises pressed out of Anakin by each deep, sharp, rolling thrust becoming increasingly wild, strange, beautiful. The back of the couch creeks ominously, unheeded, beneath Anakin’s punishing grip as Obi-Wan flexes his body and somehow twists Anakin further forward while bowing his own torso in a way that allows him lick his way down the ridged, curved edge of Anakin’s arched spine, lips and teeth and tongue all working together, scratching and laving at the skin, his face rubbing against Anakin’s shoulders and back, the skin so hot that he can feel it even against the own furnace blaze of his body, and Anakin writhes frantically, helplessly, unable to do anything else, forced to move or to explode. Nothing else in the universe but this, but two of them, together. Heat. Desire. Friction, pressure, /motion/. Obi-Wan inside him, not just cradled within heated skin, flesh, muscle, but exploding within every cell of his body, his being, synapses firing at his touch, everything in motion, in time with his movements, pushing and rolling and thrusting and tugging, caressing and squeezing and gliding and stroking, scratching and pinching and licking and biting and touching, touching, /touching/.

Anakin turns his head, his spine arcing in a motion that should be awkward, should be painful, but is, instead, beautiful as Obi-Wan raises his own head to meet him, their lips hungrily seeking after each other, meeting in a slick heated rush, closing the circuit between them, finally and completely. They come together, sharing the exact same space all the way down to their very souls, a luminous blaze building in and around their bodies like the corona of a sun that has synchronized perfectly with its moon. Heat, energy, sensation, passion, love encompasses them, devours them, permeates and swallows them whole. Nothing else exists but blissful phantom flame, overwhelming thought, emotion, everything but sensation, flesh blazing not just as though burning with fever but as if it were nothing more than a fragile vessel for light, heat, energy, the flesh only an envelope, nothing but the thinnest barrier between the outer world and a whole limitless universe within of shared love, of twinned /Light/, and when that fire reaches a certain pitch, silvery explosions of what cannot be identified as either pleasure or pain erupt in a blazing conflagration (phantasmagoric, real, super-real), the sheer intensity of raw sensation balancing naturally on that border where the two fuse into something ineffably /more/, deeply caressing waves in a relentless, endless flood, effortlessly penetrating, filling, pervading even the most secret recesses of body, mind, and spirit. The sensation is (holy) wholly beyond description, a ringing climax of emotion and stimulation that leaves them both stunned, shattered, empty and wrung out and broken open and reformed in a drunken daze, bodies twined together in a knotted tangle on the floor, thoughts and emotions and essences so mixed together that there is, quite simply, no telling where those of the one start and those of the other stop.

After a timelessness of drifting, of simply /being/, together, a pale-skinned calloused hand moves to reach out, making a commanding gesture of summoning. A heartbeat later there comes a noise from somewhere within the depths of the suite, and then a current of air from an opening door, and a few moments later a deeply indigo gemstone strikes gently home in the palm of that beckoning hand. A golden-hued hand moves to echo that authoritative motion, and a much larger light blue jewel promptly lifts up from the floor where it has been let fall to fly across the room and nestle the center of itself into the hand that’s curved to receive it. Hands touch, power jolting between them, and then the first is sliding up over the top of the second, pressing down gently, guiding the other’s fingertips down to touch the smaller crystal. The Force flows between them, effortlessly, endless, humming like electricity as it pours down from their joined hands into the not quite purplish, deeply colored crystal of the precious stone. Knowledge of the adamant rises up through the Force, whispering into deeply blended minds of all the possible paths for a break, a clean fracture, to take. The crystalline structure of the gem appears to welcome the notion of breaking, and irrepressible, undeniable knowledge rises in support of that welcome, insisting that, no matter how many times the jewel might be cut or shattered, the crystal will, nevertheless, always remain part of a greater whole. The truth needs no acknowledgment, and so the fingers simply rest there, a specific request rising to the surface of twined thoughts, letting the flow of the Force and the structure of the stone itself make the final decisions. A warm tingling sensation builds in loosely interlaced fingers, then, and an answering vibration rises from deep within the crystal, rising sharply and then ceasing as three shards of stone, two of them identical (perhaps the size of a thumb to the first), joint break off of the larger whole with a clearly audible crack.

“Leia,” a voice whispers, touching first one and then the other of the two smaller pieces, “and Luke.”

“And Bail,” the other voice quietly adds, brushing up against the third piece, which is almost the same size as the other two together.

Hands set aside the indigo stone, ovoid now instead of spherical, and reach for the pale blue gem. The silent communion is repeated, and the blue stone splits into three pieces, one just a little bit smaller overall in size than the remaining ovoid indigo jewel, and the other two breaking into identical ovoid fragments. Fingers carefully take up and bring the largest piece of blue jewel together with the bigger fragment sheared off of the indigo gem, and, even though the two pieces don’t even begin to resembled parts that should fit together, by the time the hands are touching at the base, cupping loosely around the two stones, there is a shifting, and a small sound, like a key snicking over in a lock. When the small dazzle of Force-energy centered around the two pieces has passed, there is but one stone cradled within their hands, roughly egg-shaped and just a little bit larger overall than the ovoid indigo gem, the clear, limpid blue seemingly shot through and through with tiny flecks of purplish-indigo, shining like dark stars against a clear bright summer sky. The hands set the gorgeous stone to the side, placing it gently by the blue-violet oval jewel, and then lace together tightly, holding to one another happily, heads turning so that lips can line up together, press in, caress, kiss, melt together in a loving embrace. Several long moments later, the hands peel apart enough to fetch two more shard, blue and indigo, pressing them together in the embrace of the Force. Energy flashes like sun-dazzle, and the stone emerges a darker, almost shadowy blue, the saturation of color deeper in the center, like a spot of spreading darkness from a steadily deepening twilight, pale blue wrapped around a dark core of near violet. The spherical jewel is gently placed down, perhaps three handbreadths away from the two much larger ovoid stones, and then the two final pieces are fetched, a different color fragment in each hand than the last time around, pressing together in a brief, bright flash of energy that reveals an indigo-washed spherical blue stone, the color like light bright blue eyes darkened and made almost smoky by emotion. It, too, is then set aside, nestling against its twin.

Hands reach for one another and lips meet again, then, bodies coming together with no real urgency, no wild abandon, just the solidness of a simple embrace, implacably declaring, /I belong here/. They stay there, reclining together, half sitting and half lying down, arms and legs twined in a warm tangle, kissing for a long time, making no move either to pull away or to go any further than they already are. Their embrace seems silent, no urgent ardor making low noises catch in throats and spill helplessly from pleasure-squared mouths, but the Force hums with such strength at their love that the rush of its vibrating joy floods the room around them. They exist in the blanketing rush of that hum and their kiss, tasting, caressing, delighting, affirming, rejoicing. There is no hurry, no rush. This kiss isn’t an act of mere passion: it is love itself, to simply exist in a warm embrace and kiss, lips touching and tongues stroking and sliding and rolling together, breath mingling, hearts beating steady and strong against chests fitted tightly together. The kiss is familiar, lingering, offering not anticipation of things to come but comfort and contentment with what is, with present togetherness in the moment. It is a sharing of total, pure presence within the /now/. Everything else ceases to be: the galaxy; the Temple; time; sight and sound; all thought and feeling beyond the endless present of the declaration of love that is their kiss. So long as the kiss endures, nothing exists beyond it. And when it ends, it is in its own time, at its own pace, with a gradual easing of closeness the slips gradually into a slow drawing away that ends with Obi-Wan and Anakin smiling gently at each other, their hands moving to help draw each other back to their feet and to put their clothes back to rights, instinctively using the Force to summon items of each other’s clothing (scattered from the doorway to about three-fourths of the way into the room) to their hands so that they can continue to stand close together for as long a time as possible.

Anakin sighs and ducks his head slightly, a little regretfully but mostly shamefacedly, as Obi-Wan helps smooth his tunics back on, his hand tugging the neckline of the outermost tunic a little higher than normal to cover the mark of passion at the joint of his neck and right shoulder that the Force evidently saw no need to remove, when they were within its fullest embrace. “I’m sorry,” he begins to try to apologize, heat burning in his cheeks and throat. “I know I shouldn’t push you so much, and I really should have better control over myself, by now. I just – ”

“Hush.” Obi-Wan cuts him off, laying two fingertips over Anakin’s slightly parted lips. “You’ve no need to apologize. I wanted this as much as you did. I would not have acted on the opportunity, otherwise.”

“Yeah, but – ”

“Anakin. You cannot keep fearing that I am doing these things only to make you happy. If I decide to love you, it is because I love you and I want you, not because I am afraid that you will be unhappy with me if I refuse any of your advances,” Obi-Wan firmly insists, keeping Anakin from interrupting by pressing down on his lips harder with those two quieting fingers. “The bond we share doesn’t let us lie to one another. You cannot make me want you against my will, love.”

“But you’re getting the images of what I want and the knowledge of what to do from me. You said it yourself: I project about everything I want along the bond. I feel like I’m pressuring you!” is Anakin’s clearly miserable response, when Obi-Wan lifts his fingers up enough to make it easy for him to reply.

Obi-Wan sighs, fingertips returning to trace lightly around Anakin’s slightly kiss-swollen lips. The bond between them, already open fairly wide from their recent activities, opens a little wider still, love flowing soothingly from him to Anakin. Love, and truth, too, as he moves his other hand around to tilt Anakin’s chin up just a little, so that Anakin can’t keep his head ducked down and his gaze locked on his feet. Obi-Wan’s eyes are serious, almost solemn, as he declares, “That’s not coercion, love. What you do just lets me know what I can do to you that you’ll enjoy experiencing. It doesn’t in any way constrain me to fulfill every idea that comes into your mind – something you would realize, if you would only calm yourself enough to stop fearing so much and start thinking about this a little bit more. You’ve imagined things that I haven’t attempted to try and likely won’t for a good long while, if ever, after all. You’re a great deal more comfortable with physical intimacy and much more adventurous about it than I am. But you’re also the one who has practical, working knowledge of these things. I don’t, really, not outside of what I’ve learned from being with you and experiencing your thoughts. The way you share these things with me makes this all much easier for me, Anakin. You must know that. You need to stop doing this to yourself, love. If I need to learn how to allow others to love me, then you need to learn to accept the various gestures and demonstrations of love I give to you without fearing that you are in some way unworthy of such displays of affection or that they are only being offered because you have somehow unfairly beguiled, tricked, or coerced me into giving them. I am with you because /I love you/, not because you’ve manipulated me into thinking that I should be with you.”

Instead of seeming to reassure him, though, Obi-Wan’s words only seem to make Anakin more upset, as he hunches his shoulders in on himself (arms crossed and hugging his body as if to ward off cold) and looks even more miserable than before, an ugly mix of uncertainty and fear and self-loathing churning from his end of the bond. “I – I want to believe you, I do, I just – ”

Obi-Wan frowns, pained by Anakin’s doubt, and, deciding that a more direct method of attack is needed to win this particular battle, cuts him off, gently declaring, “Anakin. /Don’t/. This is what I felt before you came into my life.” Simultaneously reaching back in his memory to the (largely pain-filled and deliberately banished to the back of his thoughts as much as possible) time before Naboo and Tatooine both became so critically important in his life, before he lost his Master and essentially became a Knight and gained a far too young and largely untrained but stupendously powerfully Force-sensitive Padawan learner all in the same day, Obi-Wan reaches out along the bond and deliberately sends Anakin a gestalt of his life before Anakin, the endless sense of incompletion and emptiness, loneliness and self-hatred and fear, restlessness and anger, shame and inadequacy and, above all, desperation, the desperate need to please, to be accepted, to find a place in the galaxy where he truly belonged and was genuinely welcome and not just tolerated, all those damning, painfully ignominious emotions that had made him so unacceptable to Qui-Gon as an apprentice, at least at first, and made him believe himself such a disgrace to his Master and the Order, even after he’d been taken on as a Padawan learner. Obi-Wan has always loved the Order – the need to be a Jedi and learn how to surrender fully to the light of the Force within himself guaranteeing his acceptance of the preeminence of the Order and the Jedi within his life – and he loves his Master and has been and remained utterly loyal to him, both during and after the natural span of Qui-Gon’s life, but that does not change the fact that he spent much of his time in the Order suffering, attempting over and over to purge himself of emotions and fears considered to be disgraceful at best and at worst dangerously unacceptable for a Jedi. For as long as he can remember, there has always been a sense of disconnect between himself and the Force, a shadow of a barrier and an aching sense of something wrong, something missing, marring his ability access that light, that power, within himself and so reach true unity with the Force.

It was only in unexpectedly discovering Anakin and finding himself the sole recipient of the whirlwind of unwavering, unquestioning love and trust and loyalty that had, even from the beginning, formed the core of Anakin’s devotion that Obi-Wan truly came to find both his center and his reason for being, the one who would be his completion and his home. Neither their rocky and uncertain beginning nor the grief of Qui-Gon’s loss had ever truly been able to dim that, to lessen that sense of connection, of belonging. They may have had their share of disagreements, but their seeming lack of confidence and comfort with one another, in their first years together, had largely been a lie, a performance they deliberately put on in an attempt to belie the fears of the Council Masters and distract the vast majority of an Order of Jedi utterly uncertain of the suddenly Knighted Sith-Killer and possible Chosen One in their midst. In the (relative) safety of their suite and the privacy offered by the missions they undertook without the accompaniment of others from the Temple, Obi-Wan and Anakin have always felt their place, their home, to be with each other. Together, they have largely unlearned the fear and suffering from the time before they found one another. They both still have a ways to go, in learning to reject those darker, damaging emotions – Anakin needing Obi-Wan’s loving help to overcome the agony he suffered when he had to leave his mother behind (only to eventually lose her completely to violence), the pain of losing Qui-Gon after choosing to leave his mother behind in order to follow the Jedi, the hurt he suffered from unfair and fearful treatment of the High Council and so many of the other Jedi, the deliberate twisting of his thoughts and emotions undertaken by Darth Sidious, in the guise of the friendly, grandfatherly Palpatine, and the near-fatal mistake of seeking to lose himself and his fears by hiding in Padmé’s undemanding warmth; Obi-Wan needing Anakin’s love and support to overcome the habits and beliefs of a lifetime as a Jedi, constantly plagued by self-doubt and a learned sense of perpetual inadequacy – but they have also both made extraordinary progress, healing and strengthening in the light of their shared love.

It is this truth that Obi-Wan reiterates to Anakin, by openly sharing with him the painful, shameful sense of his own suffering, during his time in the Order before he met Anakin. It is a heart-rending, soul-tearing experience, to share in that sense of perpetual pain, misery, fear, and self-doubt, and Anakin shudders, cringing back from wash of information and sensation, mind, body, and soul all shivering violently together under the onslaught of emotions and thoughts so like his own, in his darkest hours. Obi-Wan’s agony and his words burn indelibly into his mind, and Anakin gasps, whimpering Obi-Wan’s name helplessly. Tears begin to stream from his eyes, unnoticed and unheeded, flowing freely down his face to soak into the collars of his tunics, and Anakin wraps him arms even more tightly around himself, his body curling in on itself as if in an attempt to ward off a blow. The memory alone is enough to make him ache for Obi-Wan, and the thought that the Order and Qui-Gon did this, caused this, were responsible for the scalding, soul-scarring sensations of self-hatred and near-despair that dogged Obi-Wan for most of two decades of his life spent within the bounds of the Order, makes Anakin want to scream with outrage for the near-irreparable level of harm done to his beloved’s confidence in himself and ability to experience emotion openly without feeling shame for an unJedilike weakness. Obi-Wan’s pain hurts him so keenly that he might have been tempted to hate himself, for doing anything to add to that pain, if not for the immediate awareness that such a response would only cause Obi-Wan even more pain. It hurts so much, though, to even consider adding to so much suffering, that he can do nothing of the sort, and finds himself shaking with the effort of trying, for Obi-Wan’s sake, to let go of his own fears, his own suffering.

Obi-Wan, sensing the shift within Anakin, presses forward, physically coming closer as he quietly and truthfully adds, “This is what I feel now.”

A wholly different feeling flows into him and Anakin gasps as his mind and body both fill with a sense of joy and wonder. His body trembles helplessly at the magnitude of Obi-Wan’s feelings, the sensation of contented happiness and love and surety washing away the doubt and suffering. It is a truth Anakin can neither doubt nor deny: Obi-Wan’s emotions tell him that he knows he is no longer alone and that he rejoices in the knowledge that he has found his love, that he is home within the arms of his love. Wrapped within Obi-Wan’s emotions, rapt and unable to turn away, Anakin feels a deep and abiding sense of peace, a barely controlled passion for his love and an all but overwhelming desire to love him, to do everything he can to make him happy, make him know that he is loved, so that he, himself, can bask and glory in that happiness and that love. It is not coercion. It is simply happiness and an entirely understanding urge to protect and to increase that happiness. Obi-Wan is right. It is love, a result of love, and not coercion at all. The words seem to echo throughout his consciousness, the feelings of love and warmth and joy and partially banked but perpetually eager to rise passionate desire eroding the previous impression of loneliness and misery until only the faintest of traces remain, and Anakin has a sudden mad urge to throw back his head and laugh and cry out in unrestrained triumph and perform a fiercely happy dance of victory. Instead, he whispers, “I love you, Obi-Wan,” and hurls himself at his former Master, his tightly folded arms rapidly unfurling to engulf Obi-Wan in an almost crushingly strong embrace.

“And I, you, Anakin. And I, you,” Obi-Wan instantly swears, opening his arms wide and welcoming Anakin’s desperate clinging, stroking Anakin’s hair and carding his fingers through the loose golden curls with a fiercely protective joyousness as he guides Anakin’s head down to his shoulder, holding tight as Anakin cries, his left hand cradling the nape of Anakin’s neck and his right hand rubbing soothing circles across Anakin’s broad back, offering comfort and love and calling them forth from Anakin in such strength that they blaze in the Force, light and love doubling and redoubling in a seemingly endless progression, until the whole of the Jedi Temple shines within the Force like the incandescent heart of a hundred thousand stars.

***