Summary: A sequel for To Remain Silent, this time from
Obi-Wan's point of view.
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only thing we starving artists get paid.
Disclaimer: A long time ago in a Galaxy far far away, the
mighty Force that is George Lucas created Star Wars. And he
looked at it and saw that it was good. And all was right with
the Universe. But then time went by, (as well as two other
movies) and finally The Mighty Lucas came out with the first
episode (which was actually fourth, but -he- created it and can
do whatever the hell he wants). And we, the Mighty Fans, saw
that Obi-Wan doth look upon Qui-Gon with lust. And we also saw
that the Mighty Lucas was not likely to include this
observation in the next movie. So we said screw it and wrote it
ourselves, even though we don't make any money off of this. And
all was right in the Universe. (Bloody long disclaimer, wasn't
it?)
It is the chill in the air that wakes me. I pull my senses from
the haziness of sleep to realize that my skin is bare to the
early morning coolness of this planet. I drag the blankets from
the floor and back onto the bed, wrap myself in their scratchy
warmth. It is that moment that I glance up and my eyes catch on
you on the sleep couch across from me.
Your own blankets are in disarray, a testament to a restless
night, exposing swathes of skin to my eager eyes. I've seen you
unclothed often enough, Jedi are not renowned for modesty where
the body is concerned, but it is a rare occasion that I can see
you without covertly hiding my glances. I devour you with my
eyes, knowing that my eyes are the only part of me that will
ever be allowed such liberty. No matter how much we both want
it to be otherwise.
Do you really think that I don't know? You may think me young
and perhaps a bit naïve, but I am not blind, just as you
are not. We both know the truth and we dance around it in an
elaborate pattern of steps and retreats.
We dance because we know the truth but we also know the
consequence of that truth and neither of us are willing to pay
so much to gain so little. A short, surely explosive, moment of
utter sexual bliss compared to years of chaste companionship.
To become lovers and be forcibly separated by the Council or to
remain together as we are now. There is no question of the
choice we would make, the choice we have -been- making.
But there are consequences of that choice as well. We pay the
price of a certain tension that surrounds us, a tension that
builds and builds until finally it must break free. Like it did
last night.
It seemed so real! In my dream you touched me, you took me as I
have wanted for what seems like an aeon. If it weren't for the
betraying stickiness on my stomach, an all-too- familiar
sensation, I would swear that it -had- been real. That you had
spread my body across this uncomfortable sleep mat and poured
everything that you are into me so that we were a single being
locked together by ecstasy and love.
And oh such love, as I imagine only one such as you, someone
with such fire in his spirit, could create. I thought for just
a brief moment that I felt your love, a flame focused on me and
I could have died contentedly in the embrace of that inferno.
There -is- a part of me that would happily die, if only you
would love me. And I think you know that. Yet another reason to
keep the fires banked. Such passion is dangerous, especially to
the Force-trained and must be contained.
But it -eats- at me, a gnawing ache, knowing that the only way
I can feel your love is within the blur of dreams, dreams that
slide from my frantic grasp at the coming of the dawn. Is that
not dangerous as well? Is there not a chance that my longing
will consume me?
Dreams. I look at you again, sprawled across the cushions, the
lines of your face eased by slumber, and I wonder. What dreams
disturbed you last night, to make you so unusually restless?
I've often teased you that you sleep the way you do everything,
with calm precision. The blankets neatly tucked around you at
night stay that way until morning.
A blush heats my face as I realize that it may have been my own
dream that disturbed you. We are bonded, you and I, if not how
we want to be then at least how we should be, as master and
apprentice, and my dreams could have easily leaked into yours.
A lacking on my part to be sure, you would never
deliberately...
Would you?
The very thought that you might intentionally invade my dream
is somehow strangely...enticing, to have had a part of you
inside me. And a part of me responds to that thought, blood
rushing to lift and swell and in moments I have an achingly
hard erection.
Do I dare? I probably only have minutes at best before you
awaken and I can hardly think of anything more embarrassing
than to be caught masturbating by you. Or more stimulating. The
memory of last night's dream teases the edge of my
consciousness.
It is that memory that sweeps away the last cobwebs of my
misgivings and I wrap my hand tightly around my cock, stroking
briskly. I press the fist of my other hand against my mouth,
smothering the sounds of pleasure that threaten to escape.
I caress you with my eyes, stealing false touches of the skin
that I will never be at liberty to touch in truth.
Faster now, reaching for the peak that is coming too rapidly
and my eyes narrow as I struggle to keep them open, tracing the
lines and angles of your body. From the charming disarray of
the rough silk that is your hair to the thigh that is exposed
through the sheets, lightly dusted with dark hair, the blankets
cutting off my view at the most upper part of your leg,
shielding your loins from me. Just as well.
The tight grip of my hand as well as the thrill of
apprehension, the risk of discovery, all conspired to take me
quickly to the edge of orgasm. The heavy pressure between my
legs increases almost painfully and I arch helplessly against
the sheets, struggling for silence. As the pleasure overtakes
me I bite down hard on my fist, tasting copper warmth even as I
stifle the cries that well up inside me.
Against my best efforts my eyes finally shut and I see you only
in my mind now and is your hand on my erection, your fingers
made damp by the heated fluid spurting from my cock and I
-come- in a hard rush, an explosion of liquid heat and
sensation.
I lie there, panting and trembling, and almost reflexively my
still bleeding hand reaches out against my will, as if to touch
you. It pauses, lingering there in the space between us while
drops of my blood hang from my fingertips before falling,
quivering crimson jewels suspended briefly in the air before
splattering to the floor. In the end, my fingers pull back and
curl into a fist, smearing scarlet over my hand. I rise quickly
then, tearing my gaze from you and cleaning away all evidence
of my loss of control.
I dress and settle into the corner to meditate, to heal my hand
before you awaken and question me on it. Snapping my shields
into place I am again the consummate Jedi, the perfect student
with my emotions well in hand. Just as you taught me.
You will not speak of what lies between us, I know, and so
neither shall I. Whatever choices I make for myself, I will not
force a choice on you. Not now, not yet, this time I will fall
back and let the battle lines remain where the are drawn.
Still, I am a Jedi and I may retreat but I refuse to surrender.
The moment we are no longer master and apprentice, the moment
that barrier drops, I'll make my feelings known to you, out
loud, not with the veiled looks and half-hidden longing that
surround us now, and we -will- speak of this.
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