the most dangerous part about me, is you
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“Darth Praeses, I trust your visit to Mustafar was advantageous.”
“Yes, I daresay it proved quite profitable, Lord Sidious.”
Brown boots clip down the Coruscanti hallway with such a familiarity that, at first glance, one could nearly believe the hopeful illusion that nothing has changed. With the shadow that hides his face, aided by the dark fabrics of his cloak, it’s almost as if they weren’t setting fire to the Temple a mere two hundred kilometers away. Burning it down, to be reinvented under the control of this newly-established Empire.
It may as well have been his, because the silencing blow to the Galactic Republic had been his to take.
But even someone insensitive to the Force would notice it upon closer inspection of the once loyal Jedi. The truth of what he’s done lies in his eyes, burning with a flame as dreadful and otherworldly as the one that now claims the halls of the Jedi, when he casts his gaze upon the few clone troopers he passes in his wake, head tilting just enough to allow the glowing blaze that reaches even this distance to cast along his face, illuminating it.
If one were to wander too close, they would be able to smell the smoke. The distinct scent that he carried, tracked along the singed hem of his cloak as it billowed behind the brisk pace he’s set. Evidence of his trip to Mustafar clung, all which remained on his person, aside from the memories. Tonight, he had been forged of fire and blood, but even the burning away of what last fickle remnants of himself remained couldn’t free the man who was once called Obi-Wan Kenobi from his thoughts.
“You were my brother, Anakin,” his voice had held a strange sort of grief within it, a bizarre disappointment as the blue glint of his lightsaber blazed along the curve of his padawan’s jaw— the boy he had practically raised, laid bare before him now. Stripped of his dignity, and his legs. It was foolish of him, to think he could best his Master when he was still so full of unbridled emotion— as headstrong as ever. Anakin’s face had given away his emotions, even then. Agony ripe with an even more harrowing terror glinting in the boy’s eyes, when he looked up to the man his former master had become— but he would not join him. Anakin had made it clear which side of the Force he was to remain upon, and Obi-Wan’s voice had sounded cold, with a distance that settled over his shoulders, as he stood a little straighter with the finality of it, and left him to die, which was possibly more cruel than finishing the job right there, “I loved you.”
But even that slight hesitancy— his minor weakness, in failing to end it with a swipe of his blade— was far less valuable than the seconds it earned him in his return to Coruscant. It was even worth rushing his way through his meeting with the newfound Emperor Palpatine, if only to place him afront those double doors only one moment sooner.
Impatience had never been in his nature, but he breathed it in now. After all, he had waited long enough.
This dark excitement swirling within him, he cannot remember ever having felt before. Something unsettlingly akin to a pure childish glee at having everything he’s wanted for so long was sludged and tainted with a slower, more carnal desire. An itch, begging to be scratched in a way that he had denied himself for too many years to count. It was maddening— but he had already felt like a man driven mad, far before he had ever acted on this. The one selfish thing he would finally take.
The oath he had promised, which all at once meant something more dear to him than words could describe and nothing at all, was shattered at the altar of the Sith’s feet, collapsing quickly and ruthlessly, like the house of cards it was built upon. Soon after, the Jedi Order crumbled; an orchestration at the hands of he who had once been among their most righteous. And for what?
If asked, Obi-Wan would say peace.
But Obi-Wan did not feel at peace— nowhere near it, despite the carefully kept stoicism of his exterior. The aching throb of his self-inflicted obsession was punctuated in each snap of his boots along the cold durasteel, as they led him towards the quarters he would now claim as his own— at least, until he could acquire more appropriate ones. Deeper into the darkness he plunged, towards the woman kept within them.
He had known from the start, in some deep crevice of his soul which had only grown to overtake him in the years since— nurtured with every stray glance and slight shiver— that you would be the cause of his complete and utter ruin. The vast expanse of this devastation, however, he doubted even Master Yoda himself could have foretold.
The imposing doors bend to his will with a smooth motion of his hand, slipping open to allow his entrance. His pace never slows as he advances into the room; he is as much on a mission now as he had been on Mustafar, though this one was of his own instruction, rather than that of Darth Sidious.
Deft fingers brush back the waist of his cloak, resting on his hips as he comes to stand near the foot of the bed— a tad too elaborate for his tastes, but he had commandeered this apartment from one of the less cooperative senators. But even the reminder of the remaining work to be done cannot wipe the slight smile from his lips, and the contrasting lavish burgundy fabrics on which you rest in plain Jedi linens cannot have him think you seem out of place here. The truth of it seeped into the back of his mind, until the thought is consuming and nearly all he can dwell upon.
He would happily have had you anywhere.
The force around you is not as defensive as it had been when he had first come upon you, left malleable and sedated with the power of his own. Though, he notices, your brow is furrowed, somewhere between slumber and an innate awareness of the world around you that could only be found in those who were as skilled in the force as you. Truly, he had once thought you one of his best students.
The welcome he had initially received, only served to disappoint him.
You had known, as soon as they came down upon the Temple, who was leading the way. You could feel him— sense his presence in the way you had become hypersensitive to, in the way that one would become accustomed when spending so much time around someone as blanketed in the force as he was.
Never before had sensing his presence filled you with so much dread— or terror.
It’s nearly indescribable, the pure, void of darkness that had overcome his once light blue serenity— a vacuum that twisted the energy around him into something terrible. So controlled, and yet so completely out of it. A coil, ready to snap, and even with walls of stone and books and plaster between you— you had felt it when it did.
It was breathtaking, like a swift punch to the gut, and the impending doom that plummeted in your gut before you heard the shouts and screams had nearly dropped you to your knees. A boulder, crashing down upon your head with the weight of the power behind it— intensified only by your knowledge of who was at the eye of this hurricane ripping through the one place in the universe you had thought was truly, wholly safe, until this very moment.
Instead of falling, you grabbed your lightsaber with shaky hands, and ran on unsteady legs.
The fight was swift, the Temple taken overwhelmingly by what had proven to be a ruthless force of a clone squadron and a shocking surprise. The Jedi had fallen, all at once and then one by one, until retreat was the only option with a hope of a chance at survival. Even then, the soldiers had predicted it— he had predicted it, and they were shot down in cold blood as quickly as they attempted to flee. None were spared, not even the younglings, and that was perhaps what made this moment the most tragic of all.
So you hid, when you realized running was not so simple as making your way to a ship, and cloaked yourself until you were but a speck in the night, in one of the far reaches of the temple grounds. Hidden among dusty tomes and ragged tapestries that you cursed for not having somehow foretold this— you waited, because trying to save your friends— your family— was as much a fool’s errand as running had been.
You had felt him, reaching out with his mind, sweeping for any evidence of a force-user aside from himself. An unseen hand, probing around the barriers of your mind, while you had dared to hope he would not realize the end of his reach was the beginning of your walls. Praying that he had not noticed the inkling spark of your bright energy, simmering in the overwhelming darkness, barely noticeable, and just as rare as spotting the glimmer of a star in Coruscant’s polluted metropolitan sky.
For a wonderful instant, you felt him draw back, pass over you and sweep along. A sigh escaped, the breath you had not realized you’d been holding washing over you with a shaky relief.
Until it hit you full-force, and you felt your windpipe close with the intensity of it. A ripping of your protective barriers, torn down as if by sledgehammer, and ripped away to expose you to the consuming vacuum of his own, threatening to swallow you whole.
It had taken you the longest moment, to realize the screaming was coming from your own throat, as he forced his way into your mind and dwelled, dark and omnipotent, just long enough to find what he wanted. Forcing your eyes open, a glimpse of a tapestry registered alongside the relentless pain of an invasion within your own mind, is nearly all you remember before passing out entirely, smooth thoughts that were not your own ringing in your head, because in his haste to rip down your barriers, he hadn’t quite secured his own.
There you are, little one.
Admittedly, he could have handled you with a tad more of a gentle persuasion than was displayed, but he had been on a schedule, and his own separate objectives could not delay that of the Emperor’s, or all would risk being lost.
Obi-Wan sighs, tilting his head to take one last moment of your sleeping features in, before seeping his own energy out, prodding your own until consciousness flutters behind your eyelids, a spike in the flaring of the force around you as confusion, then panic settles along your features.
“Don’t pretend, I know you’re awake, my dear padawan,” his voice is just as smooth as you remember it ringing in your ears, but not quite as excitable as it had been as it echoed in your mind at the Temple. He was calmer, now, if only outwardly.
Opening your eyes, of all the questions you have, you only dare whisper, “Why am I alive?” Pushing yourself up from the bed beneath you, you watch him cautiously, taking in the unnatural sight of the gold in his eyes, the shadow of his Force that seems to lick along his features, radiating, like he can’t keep it all contained. A sharp contrast to the smooth blanket that had covered him before he had turned to the Dark Side.
Obi-Wan quirks a smile, watching you back yourself against the headboard, and pushes the hood of his cloak down to his shoulders, “Why, because I’m allowing it, of course.”
The dread, is nearly as powerfully debilitating as the grief of seeing him like this. For your Master, a man you had admired so dearly, to the point of perhaps something unspeakably more than that, to be standing before you entirely changed— he may as well have died, because no part of the gentle, kind Jedi you had come to know stood before you now.
Certainly, his voice was as gentle as ever, and his mannerisms as delicate, but the way he moved, the way he looked upon you, was unnerving in more ways than simply the changing color of his golden eyes. It’s then that you realize the commonality between his gaze, and the Force ghosting around him— dripping with an all-consuming hunger, akin to that of a black hole.
You’re forced to look away, glancing towards the door, then the window, and having to tear your eyes away once again, because you can still see the dancing flames of the Temple in the distance, and that’s enough to make you cry in itself, “Why are you allowing it?” Your voice is, thankfully, stronger than you had thought it would be, louder than the whisper you had only been able to manage at the start, when you lay your eyes upon the man standing at the foot of this bed once more, “I thought for sure your intention was to kill me when you invaded my mind and overwhelmed my senses at the Temple.”
“Kill you?” his chuckle is airy, light, and nothing like the suffocating feeling in your lungs as he takes a step closer, force oppressively licking at your feet, until you drag your knees up towards your chest, in an effort to escape it. The look he casts upon you is not unlike the amusement that would come right before a light chastisement, “No, I had no intention of killing you there. In my defense, you did try to run and hide. I admit, it was quite hurtful, having you run away, rather than towards me.” Another step, and the leather of his boots brushes against the duvet, knees against the mattress, “I would have thought you happy to see me, little one.”
“Happy?” it scrapes along your throat, hoarse with the emotion you strain to keep from erupting behind your eyelids into tears, “How can I be happy, when you’ve destroyed all I’ve ever known to be good and true?” Your voice chokes in your throat, “You killed everyone— even younglings.”
“That’s unfair,” he quips, with no regard for the distress in your voice, “the clones also had a hand in it.”
You scoff, anger flaring with the grief, “How can you joke about this?” Before you have the chance to speak further, your stomach lurches into your throat with both the shock and the fear that spikes up your spine as you’re wrenched towards the foot of the bed by your ankles, dragged towards him sharply by his dark Force.
“You once laughed at my jokes, little one,” his hand has found your jaw, one knee planted on the bed between your own, and you can barely breathe, tears brimming in your eyes.
Squaring your jaw, you dare to glare at him, breathing shakily, “You once told jokes that were not in such such poor taste.” It’s hard to keep from shivering, when his grip at your jaw eases, a sigh slipping from his lips in time with the threateningly gentle weight of his hand ghosting south, to your throat.
“Have you no love left for your Master, my young padawan?” his voice is low, soft, and this time you do shiver, when his hand brushes along the crossed collar of your beige tunic, “Are you so fickle?” The smile along his lips is cruel, taunting, as he breathes, “You may have forgotten, but I remember how deeply you once cared for me.”
“My master was a good man, a good Jedi,” you can’t make your voice loud, or strong, because the proximity with which his body leans over yours is weakening in itself, and in a memory that seems so distant with how vastly he’s changed, you had thought a closeness such as this possible in only your most shameful of dreams. Your voice is but a whisper, as you declare against the ghost of his lips, with all the remaining venom you can muster, “You are not him, Sith.” The tears are nearly blinding, as they threaten to spill, but you keep yourself as steady as you can in your last accusation, “I feel nothing left of him in you.”
“Of one thing, you are correct,” he growls, smile faltering as his hand captures your jaw again, forcing your gaze to meet his own with the tight grip he has you in, “I am not the Master you knew.” You gasp, feeling the slip of the hand he does not keep along your jaw at the curve of your waist, “Your Master was a fool— a coward, who would rather remain complacent and agreeable when everything around him was the opposite. A Jedi,” he spits the word, like it was distasteful on his tongue, “who was brought low by the ideals he upheld, and what was denied him, strangled by the rigid rules of a code of hypocrisy.” His hand drags along your ribs, up, until he stops just below the curve of your breast, and breathes into your ear, “That master, who had tempered your feelings, while he wallowed in his own shameful need of you?” The gold of his gaze casts upon you, out of the corner of your eye, before he fixates you once more, “You are right to believe I am not him,” you can feel his breath against your lips, as he catches your own in your throat with the weight of his hand along your neck, face burning with his words, “but you are wrong to think nothing of his desires are left within me, my dear.”
If you could barely breathe before, when he descends upon you, you feel near suffocation entirely. Breathless, and desperate in your wrenching of air through your nostrils as his lips ravish your own, grip at your neck only guiding in pinning you beneath him and the weight of the Force around him. Reaching to push him off of you, you only find yourself further engulfed in the abyss of his ravenous darkness. Trapped beneath him, you had truly never felt so alone; there was no one to save you now.
Why you pull him closer is beyond your understanding, perhaps rooted in some pitiful, misguided need to search for some semblance of the man he once was within him, now. Whatever the reason, you find yourself pulling him closer, urging him deeper, until you’re just as entangled in his cloak as he is, fists tight in the front of his gray robes, disheveling the pristine coldness that you had mistaken at first glance as anything other than the destructive fire rushing through his veins, now.
You feel as if you’re left singed, burned with how quickly he halts his advance, pressing you down into the mattress as he rips you from his lips, at arm’s reach and nearly choking under the weight of him. He’s just as breathless as you are, gold irises thin with how they’ve been almost entirely swallowed up by the black hole of his pupils.
He taunts, “I knew you would not resist me. You were always such an obedient student.”
“Stop this,” you beg, squeaking under his grip, as your hands come to his wrist in an effort to ease his wrath.
“Tell me the truth of it,” he murmurs, grip at your throat lessening, only for you to feel the gentle prod of his mind at your own. “Tell me truthfully you haven’t wanted me like this, little one.”
“Please,” you swallow thickly, wide-eyed up at him, as the darkness of his energy presses against the sliver of light in the guarded walls of your own.
“Let me in,” the urging gentleness is shocking in itself, as his fingers slip to the nape of your neck to intertwine into your hair, something you hadn’t expected after the last time he’d ripped past your mental barriers. “There’s no reason to feel ashamed of it, anymore.” Your hand comes flat against his chest as he moves closer once more, but this time he lets you stop his approach, instead calling down to you, “You mustn’t keep secrets from me, any longer. We are two of the same.”
“I am nothing like you,” you were trembling, now, and the strength of his Force swells against your mind once again, more threatening than he possibly intended it to seem.
“But you want to be,” he chuckles, brushing his thumb along your cheek, and it’s visceral, the way you want to deny it, “and it scares you, doesn’t it? It doesn’t have to.” He was wrong. He had to be. Everything about this, was wrong, and once, he would have been the one to believe it as much as you wanted to. But now, he was the one tempting you into the dark, twisting your thoughts around his fingers, and swelling your confusion, “Let me guide you, my dear. I can teach you to keep me out, later, but first, you must let me in.”
“T-Teach me?” you watch, wary the predator he’s become, as he presses down on your wavering resistance in a way that is less than asking.
But he nods, and the same light hair of your Master’s carefully-kept part sifts hair into his eyes as he grins down at you so familiarly it hurts, stabbing, right in the center of your chest, to even look at him. The slight graying of his hair, the way the skin around his eyes crinkle with mirth when he smiles, a hint of the laugh lines that threatened the years to come— it’s all too uncanny. Jarring.
If it weren’t for the otherworldly glow to his eyes, you could trick yourself into thinking he was the same as he once was, if only for a moment, “I would have you become my apprentice.” Your hand is seated still along his chest, but you’re flush, now, with only the weak barrier between you. He hums, softly, urging, “I would share my new Empire with you.” He watches you carefully, and despite any attempt at being unreadable, he had always been able to read you. The slight shift of your features betrays you, from skepticism to doubt, to the consideration in your gaze, and all the while you barely realize how gently he’s stripped away the layers of your mental barriers, effortlessly, “Standing at my side; nothing could stop us.” The smile that twists on his lips, wider and toothy, is one you’ve never seen on him, and tells the truth of his dark nature, “Perhaps, not even the Emperor himself.”
You breathe slowly, his words seeping into you, as the pause stagnates, and his lips murmur against your own, a thin veil between his consciousness and your own, “I don’t require an immediate answer, if my words are not persuasive enough. Simply let me in, little one… Or is the truth too much for me to ask of you?” Your intake is shuddering, as his lips find the curve of your jaw, the tickle of his beard a gentle contrast to the press of his fingertips at the back of your neck, “You may find I prove convincing yet.”
It shouldn’t be as hard as it is, to refuse him— to accept whatever swift retribution a rejection would settle upon you, but you do struggle with it. You wrestle with the words, in your mind, a toxic swirl of fear and grief compromising your resolve to resist the tempting lure of his promise to make all of this loss, somehow, alright in the end, if you were only to join him. Then there was the fact that you had loved him, undoubtedly more than you had cared for anything else in this universe. The small hope that any of the Obi-Wan you once knew was left in him is a dangerous one, because it is perhaps the only thing keeping you from the outright refusal of his bargain that weighs against your tongue.
But he didn’t need an answer right now— he had said that much. Just… the truth. Surely, if this was to be the end of you, you could confess that much? Maybe, it would be enough to change his mind.
Wordlessly, you shut your eyes, more in a desperate effort to keep yourself from the embarrassment of watching as he permeates the most intimate of your thoughts, than anything else, and unfold the final flimsy layer of resistance that you both know would take no effort for him to shred if he had truly wished it. Your question is answered, when you feel the tendrils of his dark consciousness seep into the crevices of your thoughts, peering equally into the abyss of his own mind as he was into yours, and finding a lingering satisfaction, to have you willfully submit, than to shred into your psyche himself.
“Ah, that wasn’t so hard, was it, my dear?”
The words ring in your head as much as they do your ears, and the only proof that it wasn’t entirely his thoughts alone is the warmth of his breath along your neck. Your own breathing hitches, as he washes over you, vast and heavy and so pitch black that you feel as if the void of his Force will swallow you whole. It’s instinctive, the panic that rises in your throat as you try to expel him from your mind just as quickly as you’d let him in, startled whimper choking in your throat as he pushes his body harsher along your own in an effort to calm your fight.
“Relax, just relax. I won’t hurt you,” it’s a lie, and you both know it, so he adds in an effort to keep your panic from rising, something closer to the truth, “Not like this.”
There’s a hint of the same, unhinged excitement from before— when he had overwhelmed you in the Temple, though on a lesser scale from the frenzied power that had subdued you then. It muddies your mind, until you can barely tell if it’s his or yours.
“Show me,” his ruinous grasp reaches deeper, growl in his throat as his patience wears, and that’s when you realize he’s nearly shaking against you with restraint, despite the guilt that erupts, bubbling to the surface of your awareness along with the feelings you’ve kept so hidden for him— for who he used to be.
“No, for me,” he corrects your thought, breathless with the surging intensity of it all, and you sink further into your shame, the deeper he reaches into the pit of your own desire for him.
“Stop,” you urge one last time, but your thoughts betray the opposite, and he says as much. Chuckling against your skin, as he drags his teeth along your throat, not bothering to speak aloud this time, when he repeats the truth of it back to you.
You don’t want me to stop, but you don’t want me to see it. What are you hiding, that could possibly be so terrible?
Everything you’d ever known had told you the dangers of this. Desire, possession, jealousy— they all led to the dark side. Paths of despair and desolation, as the Jedi had taught you. What he had once taught, now proven in this very thing he’s become.
You had wanted him, in a way that was forbidden, and he had known for nearly as long as you did. You were a fool, to ever think you could hide it from him— your shame was as plain as the way you watched him, but the depths of it, he had not been as aware of.
In every excruciating detail, he strips them bare. From the initial, silly, girlish infatuation to the deeper, carnal want, he sifts through them, growing in detail the further he trespasses. Relentless, he is, until reaching the most private thoughts of all, left only for moments of quiet secrecy, once aiding at least some kernel of bittersweet satisfaction from what could never be.
Your mouth runs dry, breathing shallow, as he realizes the depths of the eroticism you’ve smothered away. He groans against your throat, a dizziness setting in, as the mixture of embarrassment and arousal stirs with the particular fantasy he’s come to dwell upon, your face burning as you find every nerve exposed for his perusal. Unease, creeping up the back of your neck, at the invasive presence, while he appraises your every intimate thought.
Oh, I could never have guessed you thought of me in such… detail, little one.
You can’t blink the vision away, in your mind’s eye, as you watch, the taste of horror on your tongue, mixing into a sour humiliation with the growing discomfort within your abdomen. The thought of him, grasping your thighs, head buried between them, was almost as bad as the fact of the column you’d wanted him to press you against, raking your fingertips through his hair. In this particular Temple hallway, not far from your quarters, he calls to you, his padawan, like he always did, yet this inflection you’ve never heard upon his lips. He asks how you like it, then returns to his task, and to make it worse, you’re equally as licentious in your response.
Obi-Wan leans up, just enough to catch sight of your face, and you find his own is flushed, lips parted slightly as he peers down at you with lidded eyes, the fantasy fading just enough for him to catch your attention, “A pity. Had I known, I would have told them to wait at least a day before burning it all down.”
You gasp, equal parts scandalized and aroused by his words, “Don’t say that. It is sacred ground—”
“Of course,” he chuckles, and you barely realize he’s speaking when he nearly drowns you with his own conscious Force once more,“how fitting, then, to worship you there.”He’s taunting you, twisting the knife deeper to see what’s left of you, but it wouldn’t have cut so deep, if there weren’t some sliver of your soul that wanted what he offered. Even your silence cannot keep you safe from it, with the breathtaking eruption of his own thoughts heaped upon you, your only warning, his own enraptured, “My turn.”
This wretched depravity, has not been yours alone to bear, for the waves of his own selected memories bathe down upon you with a strength you can barely withstand. His thoughts, wrapping around your mind, until you can hardly tell where yours end and his begin. It comes quick, the transition from each one to the next, as you watch yourself in his imagined throes of your pleasure. Varied situations, with one undercurrent similarity—
“So you see, I have wanted you, longer than you can imagine,” his teeth brush with his nose along your cheek, breath hot in your ear and your only sense of reality as he shows you every way he’s wanted you, a throbbing possessiveness growing within your chest, until it hurts, “You’re mine. You always have been mine, my padawan, and you always will be.” It withdraws much more slowly than it started, lingering until you can finally manage a slight sense of clarity. There’s a lasting tingle from his presence, like the residual of a once-numb limb, a remnant of his voice in your head, as desperate as you’ve ever heard him. Yearning, “Stay. Tell me you’ll stay.” The words catch in your throat, as his fingertips curl into the collar of your mute Jedi robes, crossed along your chest, “Tell me you want this.”
Of the two, you choose the only question you can give an answer, your hoarse whisper steeped in all the remorse the very confession itself erupts within you, even if it’s only a repetition of what he already knows, “I want this.” He’s seen that much already, but hearing it from your lips is far more solidifying than even your own treacherous thoughts.
The satisfaction in his smile is something you catch only a slight glimpse of, before he coaxes your lips with his own, earning a muffled whimper as his hands waste little time in their effort undressing you. Stripping away the last physical proof of the ideologies he’d taught you, with the riddance of the belt about your waist, the unfolding tunic along your shoulders, a push of the undertunic from your chest, until you’re flayed just as bare as your mind has been. You aren’t quite sure if it’s better or worse that he’s just as warm as you remember, just as alive against you, instead of the coldness that would evidence him as dead as you almost wished he was, because that, at least, would be easier than accepting this that he’s become.
But he’s just as alive as you are, and nearly twice as warm. Hot-blooded and callous against you, his palm brushes a path along your stomach, pushing fabric from his path and solidifying your exposure to him. The brush of your clothing is quickly replaced with his lips, trailing down your neck, kisses dragged along your collarbone, while you come just as undone as your clothing.
Shutting your eyes tight, you’re in disbelief, reeling with the shock of it all. The entire world flipped upside down, and the feeling of his tongue along the valley of your breasts is too selfish to fully enjoy. You know you should feel worse for doing this, for not putting up more of a fight, and the fact that you can’t, scares you nearly as much as he does. The terrifying truth of it, you realize, is you don’t want to know what it’s like to live in this new world without him, for better or for worse.
Or maybe, you were complete and utterly terrified of being alone.
But you don’t know if that means you can do what he’s asking you to do— if you can become what he’s asking you to be.
All coherent internal debate is lost with the slip of his fingers beneath the hem of your trousers, undeterred by your tighter undergarments, and the wet heat of his mouth enveloping your raised nipple. He watches as you arch into his touch, gasping sharply and, almost reflexively, pushing against his shoulders as a jolt of pleasure sparks from where his fingertips press against the sensitive nub of your clit. Just as quickly, you find your wrists pinned over your head, captive in an invisible grasp.
“Obi—” is all you can manage as he hums thoughtfully around your nipple, circling torturously along your clit and urging your legs further apart with the nudge of his own. You tug at your binding, and all you get in return is hitched further up the bed, until he drags you back down the inch towards him, once more. Saliva thick, you try swallowing back the pleasure licking up your spine, settling warm in your abdomen, and try again, only to breathe shakily, “Obi-Wan— for Force’s sake—”
You nearly tell him to let you go, but when he drags his teeth against the curve of your breast, and his fingers dip into the slick between your folds, you can’t think, let alone speak with the way his own voice sounds, thick with his own want, as he addresses yours, “My, my, for such a righteous Jedi, your body betrays your eagerness.” His body drags against your own, his words just as piercing as his touch, until the scratch of his beard along your navel forces your gaze downwards, to find him. His eyes capture yours, shadowed with lust as he chuckles against your abdomen, “Shall I have a closer look?”
Your tongue darts out, wetting your chapped lips, before you answer softly, and drop your head back against the duvet in as much defeat as anticipation.
“Speak up, my dear,” he nips gently at the curve of your hip.
There’s annoyance there, in the back of your throat, dulled only by the slight breathlessness he’s inflicted upon you with his fingertips. It hardly affects him, if at all, because his chuckle is a light contrast to his manipulation of the Force around your feet, taking your boots with the aid of his fingertips at the hem of your trousers.
You pull your knees upwards, if only for some vain attempt at modesty, as you feel the heat of a flush blossoming in your chest. His shoulders knock against your inner thighs, heated breath ghosting the junction of your hip. You’re left nearly shivering in his delay, wired on the adrenaline of this nervous anticipation rushing through your veins, all the while he appraises you, as you appraise the ceiling.
There’s no warning, aside from the brief kiss at your inner thigh, before he buries himself in the heat of your core. Tongue against your clit, and you barely know how you like it yourself, but he’s a quick study. Your hips retreat from the intensity of it, until caught by his hands and the warning sound he leaves in the back of his throat, vibrating deliciously against your skin until he shakes his head slightly and you’re left gasping with the infuriating relief of a shift in his tongue, teasing the split of your folds before delving deeper.
He’s relentless, and not even the varying pressure of his lips, teeth, and tongue can aid in a somewhat merciful reprieve from the onslaught of pleasure pulsing within you. No effort to rid yourself of the tight pressure around your wrists can lead to an escape, and no hitch of your heels at his ribs can urge him where you need him most; you’re left writhing beneath him until you reach the brink of insanity. Quiet at first, your effort at keeping your whimpers somewhat hushed crumbles entirely with the addition of his fingers, pressing a single digit slowly within you and wrecking you entirely with the invasive stretch of it, and the muffled humor at his tongue.
Lips brush along your inner thigh, fingertips digging into the fleshy cushion of it while he presses the digit of his opposite hand deeper within you, “Do I live up to expectation?” There’s barely time to collect your thoughts, let alone answer, before his tongue laps around your aching clit once more, “Shall I call you my padawan, like you imagined me to?” Your whine is truly pitiful, as he grins up at you and, even with all the mock seriousness of it, when he asks, “Tell me, my dear little padawan, do you like it as much as you thought you would?” you nearly fall to pieces.
“Y-Yes, Master,” you say before you can think properly about it, thoughts jumbled and swirling haphazardly, caught up in the circles he rubs, tongue flat against your clit, and the repetitive drag of his fingers within you. He’ll rub you raw, with that beard of his, is all you can manage to think, as he pushes another finger to meet the first, stretching you further and driving you just that much closer to the brink of madness.
You’re begging, you realize through the haze that’s fallen over your senses, almost as suffocating as his own presence, but one of your own making. You can barely feel anything other than him, his mouth, his breath, his hands, and body along your own— dulled down to the blunt tip of pleasure you teeter atop.
A glance spared down the spanse of your body, the brief catch of his golden eyes in your own, and you’re falling from it. Tumbling and erupting with the liquid fire that he drags you through, strangling gasps in your throat as you detonate, meanwhile his grasp upon you only tightens. Bruising his fingerprints into your thigh as he groans into the heat of your cunt, enamored in the pleasure stripping you to less than nothing, in the split second it takes to somewhat catch your breath again and realize he hasn’t stopped until you’re begging him to.
Your legs tremble slightly when Obi-Wan finally relents, the aftermath of your climax leaving you heady and pliable. A sloppy kiss left against the side of your knee before he leans back onto his own has you watching him carefully, gaze slipping along the dim shade of his form, dark colors only further enhancing the shadows along his features. You follow the movement of his hands, practiced and meticulous in their removal of his cloak from his shoulders, falling off the edge of the bed.
“Collect yourself,” it’s smooth, yet slightly strained with want, as he tugs loose the belt along his waist, dropping it and the saber attached there to the floor, “I’m not through with you yet, little one.”
The thrill that spikes in you is just as disastrous as the man who elicits it, and the small sliver of fear that’s left worries he’ll brand a stain against you that you can’t quite rub clean. What’s left past that despicably revels in the way his gaze slips along your form, aching in more ways than one.
A pull at your wrists against his power proves fruitless, but you hope maybe he’ll take pity as you urge softly, all pretense of resistance forgotten, “I want to touch you, Obi-Wan.”
His faux thoughtfulness is as mocking as his grin, teeth bared to the notion you could have your way so easily, and you think he refuses just to spite you, “Later, perhaps.”
Frustrated, you display as much with the dissatisfied noise you make in the back of your throat, “Why not now?”
When he dips his weight back into the bed, making his way along the burgundy contrasting your skin, he’s nearly as bare as you are, save for the way your tunic still lingered against your back. Freed of the tight collar of his robes, trousers undone low about his hips, impatience had not been one of his better-known faults, until now.
Hands along your knees part you for him once more, smoothing up the skin to settle heavy at your hips and bring you sharply into the drag of his own, and the clear awareness of the hard curve of his length through the trousers separating you, “I’m starting to enjoy having you at my mercy.”
It’s pathetically true, as it slips from your tongue onto his, “That, I’ve always been, Obi-Wan.”
He kisses you this time, and there’s more of an edge to it. Devoid of any lingering urge to tease, he gives as much as he takes, catching each heavy breath with its equal. His hand reaches up, catching just below your chin, middle finger lying close to the hinge of your jaw as he strokes his thumb down your neck and claims your tongue with his own.
He’s grinding his hips into your own by the time he departs from you, only for the opportunity to free himself from his trousers, fingers wrapped just below the leaking head of his cock. Something between a laugh and a moan is caught in the huff of air that escapes him when he runs his length through your folds, finding a grip at your waist and squeezing as you strain to meet his hips with your own.
You feel it, from the curved head to the veins straining against his shaft as he tortures you with it once more, dragging along your oversensitive nub before finally catching at your slick entrance. The embarrassment the intensity in his eyes brings nearly makes it better, when he splits you open and watches the reactions flit along your face with his own slightly slack jaw. He drags the bottom of his parted lips between his teeth as his brow furrows, so close to the look of concentration you had seen along his face many a time before, but the only thing his eyes seemed to be focused on was you.
Your breath hitches, guttural moan cracked in the back of your throat as he stretches you out slowly at first, and then all at once. Hips flush against yours in all the spanse of a quick moment, the slap of skin against skin announcing his achievement as his shoulders roll forward and his fingers release your waist to trail ever upwards. His next thrust would have hitched you up the bed, were it not for the way he’s hooked your left leg into the crook of his arm, bending his neck ever so slightly to brush teeth against the inside of your knee when he hits you deep once again.
It’s involuntary, and were you in any state to think more logically, you would have remembered that tugging at your wrists was entirely futile, but you do it anyway. Shoulder-blades stiff, and yearning for something, anything, to hold onto— to touch— aside from the duvet you’ve balled into your fists, you’re barely even coherent as he sets his pace, and you find it’s brutal.
He’s kneading your breast as he drives into you again and again, no longer slow but still just as torturous as before. He fits within you in a way you never could have predicted, as you wrestle between trying to meet his thrusts and wanting to run from them entirely.
You barely register what you’re saying, unable to stay quiet while simultaneously incapable of anything more than scattered encouragements and broken syllables of his name. Arching your back into his hand, you gasp desperate pleas as he returns to your clit, surprisingly precise considering his every thrust jolts his hand off-kilter.
“Obi— Obi-Wan— Master— oh, Force— oh, fuck—” you’re holding on by a thread, and he halts your breathing entirely with how quickly his hand escapes your clit to grasp, tight, at your throat.
Leaning over you, pressing your own thigh against your stomach to the point just adjacent to pain, he growls into your ear, grin cutting breathlessly against your cheek, “You’ll watch your fucking mouth, little padawan.”
“A-Apologies, Master,” but you can hardly keep your own slight amusement at bay once his grip lessens even a little, and you catch sight of the mirth in his own eyes as he raises up to hold you at arm’s reach. You almost don’t realize when the encapsulating pressure escapes your wrists, a beat passing before your hands catch around his wrist at your throat.
The feeling is intoxicating, so strong you can barely think of anything other than his body against yours, inside yours, and the clawing desperation to feel something even close to what he had erupted within you before. You’re begging him for it, and you don’t care anymore for whatever this makes you when you’re through.
He nearly has you there, meeting his every hard thrust with a sloppy excuse of your own, nails digging into the skin of his wrist, but then your whole reality shifts, tilts, and if you weren’t force-sensitive, you would have landed flat on your face into the duvet instead of catching yourself with your hands. He manhandles you up by the back of your tunic, catching harshly beneath your underarms to drag you up against him with the aid of that same black energy that now licks up your sides.
Obi-Wan frees you of what little clothing you have left, dragging your back into his chest as he catches your jaw and you bare your neck too easily for him not to have completely consumed you. Scruffy beard and soft lips lay their claim, fingers reaching around your hips to delve between your thighs, talented in his elicitation of your pleasure as he takes his own with the push of himself through your folds once more.
Breathing doesn’t come easy, the more he destroys you against the comforter, oppressed by his body atop yours and ravishing each fiber of your being until you’re hardly anything more than a ball of raw nerves, and desperate cries. He hits all the better like this, dragging sharp tendrils of pleasure all the way to your toes as you dig your fists into the sheets, feeling him pressing a tight angle within you, that has you falling apart with each stroke of his fingertips.
Irregular gasps of air escape you, unable to even speak past the blinding white-hot euphoria that snaps from the tightly wound coil of his construction. Pulsing contractions of erratic chaos shake you to the very bone, as you fight your way through it. The shockwave of energy erupting around you would have been lost on you entirely, if it weren’t from the sharp clatter of artwork falling from the walls, lamps crashing into dysfunctional shards of glass, cutting through the white noise ringing in your ears. His own desperation breaks along your shoulder, groaning a broken slice of your name before his voice cracks, and his grip tightens, dragging you both into his uncoordinated final thrusts and damnable pleasure.
You find the flesh of his right hip, blunt nails digging in, as he rocks his release within you with a swallowed whimper, forehead pressing squarely between your shoulder-blades. You’re both left panting by the end of it, wired and more delicately fractured than before this all started, but the final crack in your armor comes with his murmur against the skin of your back, sounding as close to genuine as you’ve heard pass his lips since he turned to the dark side.
And you’re glad he can’t see your face, because it gives you just enough time to quell the budding tears against the duvet, as you surrender, never having quite realized how close acceptance feels to numbness, until now.