Archive: master_apprentice, World O' Pretty Boys, anyone else,
pls. ask
Author's web page: http://www.ravenswing.com/ravendreams/
Category: Angst, POV
Rating: R
Warnings None
Spoilers: none
Summary: A padawan lusts after their master
Notes: Thanks, as always, to Velma for the beta. Thanks to MJ
for the support and the title. All mistakes are mine
Feedback: Waited for with bated breath.
Disclaimers: Lucas owns it all. I don't have enough money to
pay attention.
I want you.
I want you so much that the need to touch you, to feel you warm
against my skin, pulses through me, a mantra of desire. It has
penetrated my existence, my daily routine. I need to know the
taste of you in the back of my throat.
You must know, must feel the desire throbbing within me, making
me cry out in fierce desperation in my solitary bed, hand
filled with my own spent seed. Yet, your eyes never waver from
their duties, from their judging. I have never once felt heat
in that gaze, heard desire in your voice.
Your silence is deafening.
I live through these days, watching the fall of your robe as
you move through the Temple, instructing. Your hands burn
through my tunics as they mold me, turn me. When we fight
together, we are fluid, dancing to an internal beat.
Your face is always calm, reminding me of some thin mask. My
fingers itch to snatch the covering off, tear away that stoic
expression and see the passion, the heat that I know must be
buried beneath. I need to turn that fire toward me, feel it
brand my soul.
Force help me, I'm so cold.
When you are not here, when you have slipped away from the
quarters that we share, I cannot help but creep into your
private chambers, run my fingers along the frame of your bed,
bury my face within the pillows that hold your head.
In moments like this, your musk surrounding me, my eyes closed
against the truth, I can imagine you are here, watching as I
slowly unfasten my tunic. I can hear your breath as I stroke my
skin, my hips undulating while my fingernails scratch at my
chest. My nipples burn as I pinch them harshly, tightening with
sensation. I need you to touch me like this, to set me alight,
to leave angry marks that throb.
My gasps float on the air as my fingers dig into my hips, my
inner thighs. My skin slowly warms underneath the harsh touches
and I feel myself awakening, thawing in some essential way that
I don't comprehend. This need is terrifying.
I embrace the fear and feel it transform into rapture.
Behind my closed eyelids I can see you, feel your dark eyes
tracing down my exposed chest. I can't help but wonder if you
would bend to soothe the marks of passion I have left. Would
you trace them with your tongue? Or would you add to them,
deepen them? My hips rock at the thought of your hands branding
me with evidence of your passion.
Would you have me stripped before you? Or would you slip your
hand inside my leggings, like I do, making this heat something
stolen, temporary. My hands move harshly, pretending to be
yours, as I sob into your pillow.
My orgasm fills me with a burning agony that tastes of your
exhalations.
As the rapture leaves and the chill begins its reclamation of
my bones, I stand and straighten your bedsheets. I can feel
your approach and slip into the 'fresher to wipe myself off and
splash water on my face. I fasten my tunics, pulling the
material tight across the tender skin.
Your voice slips through the cracks of my mind, calling to me,
bringing a promise of warmth. I school my face into stillness,
holding onto the dying coals of passion, banking them.
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