Chapter Text
Obi-Wan has been kept in the dark about his own Name's Day for the most part. Vader had taken it upon himself to create something special, just for him.
It made Obi-Wan feel uneasy. He was never particularly great with surprises, but since his seventeenth year, he had developed a special dislike for anything that could catch him unguarded. He kept it to himself, however - he would dislike it even more if his Master were to consider him ungrateful.
So, when the day came and Vader took him from the bed and out of the destroyer completely, for a single moment, Obi-Wan became terrified of being abandoned all over again.
But Vader keeps him close as they step down into the green fields of Alderaan and further through the soft grass.
His Master puts him down on the warm knitted blanket thrown over the emerald patch. Obi-Wan sits cross-legged, fingers sliding to touch the gentle stems of sweet-smelling wildflowers on impulse. The untamed nature calls to him, singing in the rich magnificence of the Living Force. He could feel every being around them, hear the thousands of hundreds stomping feet belonging to the indiscernible insects hidden by the grass blades. He could feel the laboured growth of the nearby trees and the quick-living maturity of flowers.
For a moment Kenobi becomes overwhelmed, too lost in the lush animated vitality of the place, before Vader sits next to him and pulls him into the present, like an experienced fisher reels back his catch.
"Do you like it here?" he asks softly, looking down at Obi-Wan with something that makes his little heart flutter. Like Obi-Wan somehow is worth more than all the natural riches of Alderaan.
Kenobi looks at the faraway mountain tops and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"It's beautiful, Master. Thank you."
He looks back at Vader and reaches into the space between them. His lips meet the smooth skin of Sith's cheek and he presses a light kiss to it, feeling giddy and childish. Vader catches his retreating head with a warm palm cupping his jaw. His Master looks at him, searching for something deep in his irises, before he murmurs:
"You’re welcome, sweetling."
He then reaches back, into the basket the man brought with them, to extricate the little delicacies he chose for Obi-Wan's birthday.
Most of the things he was seeing for the first time, and they made his mouth water at the mere scent.
Vader takes out a knife and cuts the bulky fruit into pieces right in front of him. Juice seeps through his fingers and the smell alone is enough to entice one’s appetite. The Sith smiles at him and holds a scarlet-skinned bite right before his lips.
"It's Java Apple," he explains, pressing a chunk into his mouth with long fingers, "Try it."
Obi-Wan bites down, tongue darting to catch the squirting sap before it runs down Vader's wrist. The tip meets the skin, and he blushes before registering the flavour. It seeps slowly, filling his mouth with the sweet runny taste of watermelon. Obi-Wan moans, closing his eyes, and Vader chuckles.
"I thought you might like this one. It's unlike the sour tang of the Jawa Juice, although it's easy to assume they are related because of the name," the man plops the rest of the bite onto his own tongue and Obi-Wan is visited by a sudden thought that for a brief moment, his Master's mouth touched the place where his own was just a second ago.
"It's good," he says, pink shame dusting his cheeks, "Really good."
"I'm glad you like it, sweetling. I've got other things for you to try too," Vader smiles, as he reaches out to trace the light blush with his cold durasteel digits. It feels good, the cooling touch against the heated flesh. The golden plating almost turning his skin into something precious.
"The Alderaanians had an old legend," he remarks suddenly, not sure why he has decided to speak or even if he was allowed, but continuing, nonetheless, "That there was a man once, with an aurum touch. The man was blessed by the Gods for the generosity of his heart, but the blessing quickly became a curse."
Vader drops his hand and turns to sink his strong fingers inside the thick bald skin of a pomelo. It rips apart from the power of his hands and Obi-Wan's breath hitches inside his throat. Yet, he still carries on with his tale.
“Everything he touched turned golden, from food to people. He couldn’t hold things dear to him, for the fear of ruining them. Turning them into something cold and lifeless,” the yellow skin separates from the white sides with ease and Vader hums, as he parts the citrusy insides, severing them from thin membranes, “He ran away, afraid to tarnish things that were better to be left alone. Things that were beautiful without turning to gold. He ran across the ground that connected land and sea and the rocks under his feet turned golden too. The Alderaanians say this is how the sand was created.”
Vader offers him the fruit, mauled to perfection. His fingers are glistening with juice and Obi-Wan takes his offering with the care it demands. He tries the segment and lets its sharp citrusy flavour wash over his tongue.
He licks his lips and extends his palm for another piece.
"So what has happened to the man?" Vader wonders, as he peels him a new treat, "The man in your story."
"Oh. He drowned himself. To avoid hurting anyone even by accident," Obi-Wan retells awkwardly, "It's... it's not a very good story."
His Master hums again, reaching out for the plump, rich persimmon. They are usually out of season this time of year and feel bitter and tongue-tying, but Obi-Wan will still try it if Vader would offer. He would try anything from his hands.
"Why did you want to tell me this story, then?" Vader asks, his eyes leaving the persimmon just for a second to dart at him.
Obi-Wan looks at his own hands, his pale palms, thick long fingers that still are much shorter than those of his Master. He thinks about touching his Master, about the way Vader's eyes flutter when he does. The ways Anakin liked to be touched.
His touches are soft, gentle. Nothing special. Nothing to create tales about.
"I... I always feel like that, when you touch me," he confesses, voice timid and quiet, hands grasping the woollen material of the blanket just to hold something in a fruitless attempt to hold himself together too, "Like I'm... precious. Like... like you make me golden. And even though, it - it might make me tainted, I still want it. I want it more than I should. More than anything."
Vader drops the fruit and as it falls on the grass, an orange sun in a sea of greenery, Sith's arms circle around Obi-Wan, hauling him closer into the safety of his body. His head gets pillowed on the strong shoulder, nose warming against the sun kissed skin. Vader smells of spice and scorching heat, melting metal and leather. It's odd, the scent devoid of anything comforting and - yet, he still thinks of it as home.
"Obi-Wan," Sith murmurs, "My little precious Obi-Wan. My treasure."
They sit together, basking in the familiar consolation of each other's touch.
Vader feeds him a smooth burgundy-sided nectarine, without letting him go. Obi-Wan bites into the tender skin, his own arms around Vader's neck, and the overwhelmingly sweet juice runs down his chin. It's sugary and he leans for another bite, as his Master bends down to catch the running trail with the tips of his fingers.
Obi-Wan licks them clean - the taste is just as good as from the ripe flesh itself.
They exchange flavours - the tang of carambola sweetness, the slight sourness of emerald kiwi, the sugary bite of the sapodilla and the tart crunch of crimson pomegranate seeds.
Vader feeds him with his hand, darting to taste the running sap with his own tongue.
In the end, Obi-Wan can't help it. He is growing hard and needy, the sensation of tongue against his skin, the heated breath on the wet expanse of it. The taste of Vader's fingers in his mouth, sharp and rich all at once.
He moves accidentally first, and the pressure is so overwhelmingly good, he can't force himself to stop. The Sith doesn't stop him either.
Vader's hands come to his sides, sticky and strong, they grasp him, while his Master's face morphs into something pleased and pleasured. Something hungry and satisfied all together.
Obi-Wan rocks forward, grinding on the strong thigh between his legs. They get nearer, as close to a kiss as he is ready for right now, mouths mere inches away, the scent of fruits, citrusy and sweet mixing on their breaths. They inhale each other, desperately, half-starved. Yearning for a touch, but still afraid of what would come after. Hesitant to cross that final line.
Vader's hands hold his waist, guiding him, grounding him. Obi-Wan whimpers and he catches that sound with his open, panting mouth. It's too intimate, too good. The devotion in Vader's eyes making him feel wrong-footed, off balance. Like a tilting structure about to fall. He doesn't know if he will ever recover if he does.
Sith's hands on his body are akin to branding. They mark his skin, burn into his flesh in the exact prints of his palms, so that everyone who would lay their eyes on Obi-Wan's form later will know he belongs to the man.
Deep down they both know it to be true from the very beginning.
He feels feverish, his face flushed and lips tingling, as Vader nearly grazes them with his own. His head spinning and pleasure, heady and thick, is clouding his mind. The aftertaste of sweetness on his tongue intoxicating. His trousers are suddenly too tight, too scratchy and uncomfortable. He wants them off. He wants the staggering pleasure that comes only from flesh joining flesh. It's unbearable, excruciating and he feels lost and found and then lost again. Like a lonely boat adrift in the boundless vastness of the deep blue sea, with no safety of a single lighthouse in sight. Yet, he still stretches his hand into the impenetrable darkness, desperate to reach out.
Obi-Wan closes his eyes and calls out the name he knows more intimately than his own.
"Anakin..."
But the instant the single word leaves his mouth, Kenobi freezes. His eyes fly open, terrified and instantly fearful of the imminent punishment that will be inflicted upon him.
The Sith reject their names, reject the weakness that they attribute to their lives without the Dark. It's what they have been told. It's what he knows to be true, deep inside, because when Obi-Wan had called him before, alone and afraid, Anakin never answered.
Vader's fingers squeeze his thighs, the unyielding durasteel biting into the skin even through the layer of his soft leggings.
The eyes in front of him are blazing, deep and unforgiving like the bubbling lava of Mustafar.
Obi-Wan forces himself not to close his eyes in dread when the punishment comes. He waits, holding his breath, for a retribution worthy of his reckless transgression.
But it doesn't come.
Vader cocks his head, hair falling to the side like tarnished gold, as he slowly moves Obi-Wan closer to straddle him fully. His hands are hard, yet painfully gentle. His touch, still present, still kind, is more than Obi-Wan could have ever hoped for.
The Sith presses his sharp nose to the soft flesh of his cheek, nuzzles closer, before sliding down, to leave a light kiss on his jawline and the side of his neck.
"You don't have to fret, little one. I always loved how you say that name," Vader says to him slowly, softly, and his words caress his skin just as sweetly as his lips feel against the exposed flesh, "You can hold on to it, if you wish, sweetling. Like a keepsake."
Like a gift.
Obi-Wan can't breathe, can't speak. The air has been stolen from his lungs; the heart has been robbed from his chest - all of it with a single admission. It makes him surge forward, to hide his own face in the expanse of his Master's broad chest and hold back hot tears.
Honeyed permission tastes better than all the exotic fruits Vader had fed him before, it tingles on his bitten lips, warms him up faster than expensive Alderaanian wine. He is drunk on the meaning of it.
Vader had gifted him his own name, the person he once was, who he still is - only for Obi-Wan. And that alone is the most precious and greatest present anyone had ever given him.
***
They establish a routine. A line drawn in the sand, ephemeral. A gossamer stretched between them, ethereal enough to be crossed easily, but still there, still hanging, waiting to be broken.
They share a kind of intimacy that was not present before. His Master touches him, kisses his neck and open shoulders, draws patterns on the exposed parts of his skin when they lay in bed together. Yet, he still lets Obi-Wan make the next step. The final step.
He sees the hunger in his Master's eyes, the gnawing yearning. He is wanting. Aching for it, Obi-Wan knows, when he sits across Sith's lap and feels the unmistakable hardness beneath him.
He is not cruel, nor is he vengeful. He just waits. Tastes the depth of his Master's patience, passion - like a diver tastes the waters before jumping in. He needs to be sure. He can't be hoaxed a second time; he can't afford it. Nobody can.
He has to be certain.
His Master returns to him one quiet afternoon, after six days away. It's the longest they've been apart since the Sith found him and took him back. Obi-Wan sits in his favourite chair, built and brought specifically for him, as one of Vader's birthday presents. It is not overly practical on a ship, but Obi-Wan still likes it. It is soft and comfortable, welcoming his body like a hug. His Master often moves it from its designated spot, just so he could place Kenobi's legs across his lap. A constant point of contact.
When he comes back, Obi-Wan feels him. The gentle tugging at the back of his mind, a familiar pressure, known and beloved in equal parts. His Master is coming. His Master is home.
The door opens, but he already reaches out, his Force presence entangling with the other like vines, intimate and inseparable.
"I have a gift for you, little one," Vader says just as he enters.
He proceeds with walking without stopping, closing the distance between them in big strides, like an animal starved.
Obi-Wan places his piece of cord, weaved into a little braid, as a bookmark, before he closes the well-read novel.
His brow arched, as he looks up into the playful face of his Master.
"What is it?" he asks, cocking his head. His Master brings him various trinkets from his occasional trips away. The ones Obi-Wan deems acceptable for him to go on that is, although the man could never know that. The thread between them is brittle, delicate - one unwise tug and Kenobi will choke himself with it.
Last time his Master brought sweets, so delicious, Obi-Wan had sucked the powdered residue from his thick warm fingers, the man was feeding him with. Before that was a wooden comb, made from a rare tree trunk, that left his hair soft and sap-smelling. And before that were books. Books were always a safe choice.
"Close your eyes and hold your hand out for me," the Sith tells him, his gaze gleaming molten gold, warm and captivating, "Palm up, Padawan."
Obi-Wan obliges, like he always does. He is a good boy and good boys get rewarded.
He puts his arm toward the man and waits, trembling slightly in anticipation.
Something cool touches the centre of his palm, coiling there like a snake. Obi-Wan feels the need to open his eyes and look, but he smothers it, waiting for permission.
"You can look now," his Master allows him, something soft but eager colouring his voice.
Kenobi lowers his head and there in the middle of his open hand lays a little metallic piece, he recognises as hair adornment.
It twists in a delicate pattern and the silver edges capture his attention and steal his breath. He knows this thing, the lines of it around the thick dreadlock are as familiar as his own hair.
Obi-Wan stares, unable to comprehend, scared to believe. His hand is trembling, his eyes already wet. He looks up to see his Master's gentle expression and that is when a single tear escapes his hold.
He mouths a name soundlessly, terrified that the single word will undo him.
Vader lifts the corner of his mouth in a soft little smile.
"I believe he would like for you to keep it safe for him. For when he would be able to collect it back," his Master says and Obi-Wan lets himself fall into his arms, crying openly.
Quinlan.
Quinlan is still out there. He is well.
He is still alive.
Vader kneels on the floor as he soothes him, petting his sides, while Obi-Wan scrambles to grasp him, his palm still clenching the little metal piece, as his fingers roam over the other's man body, desperately trying to find purchase, shaken and elated all at once.
"Thank you," he mewls softly, repeating the words over and over until they become a litany - until they lose individual sense and become one continuous cry.
Vader cradles him, kisses his cheeks and nose, his forehead and brow, as Obi-Wan shakes in his hands.
"It's alright, sweetling," he whispers back, his tone reverent, rapt, "You’re welcome, baby. You’re welcome."
His fingers swipe across Obi-Wan's cheek, wet with happiness, and the man holds his face in his mismatched palms, looking at him with such awe, Obi-Wan feels his chest clench even harder.
He inches closer, just barely, just so he could breathe in the air that his Master exhales, letting it fill his emptied lungs.
Vader holds his chin, his eyes dark and heady - so close, Obi-Wan can feel the heat of the golden irises.
And so, when he bows his head, his Master is there to catch him.
They kiss.
The press of mouths, warm and unfamiliar, but already loved, the quick intake of breath - loud in the pressing, sudden silence.
It's Obi-Wan's first and he gifts it to his Master the same way the man has gifted him joy, warming up in the swell of his still closed palm.
It's alright now.
He knows.
***
Trust breeds confidence. Slowly, surely with each passing day, Obi-Wan lingers. When they touch, sweet and eager, letting their contact last just a little longer. When they exchange glances, heated, longing.
When they kiss.
Obi-Wan has discovered that he likes kissing his Master very much. Little pecks on the cheek, when he raises to his tiptoes to greet him or simply to express gratitude. Vader is always slightly dazed by each and every one of them, his Force signature growing still, before exploding like a new star.
Chaste kisses on the mouth, light and promising. Before finally granting the kisses his Master is yearning for. The ones that declare Obi-Wan as his own, the ones that burn their cores, make them greedy for each other.
He lingers, letting his Master touch him for longer, kiss him harder.
Until eventually, he lets Vader take him to bed too.
It is an enlivening affair. His very first.
Obi-Wan shakes with exhilaration and fear, terrified for something to go wrong, for his Master not liking him, not wanting him. Changing his mind. But also, so very thrilled. He had dreams about it. Shameful, heated dreams young boys always have about the object of their deep affection. Obi-Wan knows it would be different, yet the residual sweetness and passion of those dreams urge him to fall into the arms of his Master eagerly.
Vader takes his clothes carefully, piece by piece as he meticulously depetals his still youthful body. Warm fingertips caress his nipples, playing with them until they too stand on his Master's command. It is somehow both mortifying and exciting. Vader's mouth devours his skin, never parting, as he takes his own clothes off.
Obi-Wan is not ready to go all the way, but his own hunger for his Master's touch is too strong when Vader settles between his splayed legs, palms exploring with the same enthusiasm as his lips.
"Will you take care of me, Master?" Obi-Wan murmurs, fingers curling in Vader's hair.
The Sith Lord groans, his mouth tracing the vulnerable flesh of Kenobi's white thighs. He licks a short, wet line, nuzzling into the fold of his leg and crotch.
Obi-Wan bites his lip.
He cleaned himself thoroughly, but the deep fear of missing something, disappointing his Master with his body, still claws at his throat.
Vader moans, rubbing his face along the crease, eyes fluttering shut.
"I'll make you feel so nice, little one, I promise. Will take such good care of you, sweetling," he maffles, kissing the inner part of Obi-Wan's thigh with such reverence, it makes Kenobi's heart throb, "Stars, you smell amazing."
Obi-Wan's fingers twitch, tugging on the faded golden curls, and Vader groans next to his cock, his pleasure palpable around them. Kenobi's pink member pulses, its sizable rosy head wet with arousal. Vader ignores it, but his eyes are hungry for every little twitch.
He kneads Obi-Wan ample cheeks, palms pressing with enough force to brand him to mark him as Sith's property, now and forever. Strong digits leave bruises on pale skin and that thought alone makes Obi-Wan whimper pathetically.
Vader's mouth devours his thighs, leaving small kisses and shallow bites across the milky skin, making it gain colour in little scarlet blots.
"My pretty little Padawan," he murmurs, tracing a left-over hickey, laid just below the swell of his bottom, "So sweet, so lovely. I want to eat you up. Would you let me?"
The Sith's eyes are ravenous, pleading and his mouth has already taken control over Obi-Wan's body - so what is one more conquered part compared to the utter surrender of his heart and mind?
He nods, biting his lip.
Vader lets out a soft low noise, fingers digging deeper into the meat of Kenobi's body, his mouth already returning to its meal.
"So good for me, darling. Such a good boy," he growls, before lifting Obi-Wan's hips off the bed and twisting them around.
Obi-Wan cries out in surprise, hands darting to hold himself, as Vader ends up beneath him, sitting him on his own chest.
This position is new, somehow even more vulgar, more exposed.
His cock bobs right in front of his Master's face and the Sith surges forward, just to touch the underside of it with his tongue.
Obi-Wan whines, his hips thrusting forward without his permission.
Vader chuckles.
"I want you to ride me, baby," he says and Obi-Wan frowns, before two strong palms guide him further and closer to his Master's head, "I want my sweetling to sit on my face, as I pleasure him. Would you like that?"
Kenobi blushes furiously, his cheeks on fire, but the quiet needy whine that escapes him is as telling as any words could be.
Vader smirks at him, cocky and keen, before tugging Obi-Wan to follow the little pathway to his face.
Obi-Wan is fearful. What if he is too heavy? What if he suffocates his own Master?
It's mortifying.
Vader taps him on the hip, eyebrows shot up, before he easily lifts him with the Force and just as easily lowers him down.
"Do not worry, sweet thing," Vader says, reading his fears as skilfully as ever, "Just feel for me. Let your Master make you feel good."
Obi-Wan steadies himself against the cold wall and nods, obediently closing his eyes.
That makes the sudden puff of hot air right next to his very core intense enough for him to flinch and then shiver as the warmth spreads from that one spot all over his body.
Flames of arousal lick at him with fervour before his Master's tongue even touched him - the nervous excitement, the acute exhilaration making him tremble. Sith's strong palms on his thighs, his backside, squeezing, grounding him in place.
First kiss to his sensitive flesh sends a jolt through his whole body. Obi-Wan cries out, bending backwards so hard it makes his spine crack like thunder in a quiet room. His palms clasp tightly onto Vader's sides, fingertips digging into the warm skin of tanned shoulders. The Sith has the audacity to laugh beneath him, before blessing him with another kiss. And another.
When the soft press of his lips is exchanged for the brief swipe of tongue, Obi-Wan is the hardest he has ever been in his life.
His cock is weeping, a long string of pre-come falling down, messing his Master's hair. He whimpers, equal parts ashamed and excited.
Vader puffs out a scorching exhale right on top of his wetted hole and Obi-Wan shudders.
"Good boy, baby, such a good boy for me, Obi-Wan" he says and Obi-Wan can feel his smiling lips right against his quivering entrance.
Obi-Wan cries out, thrusting his hips, seeking friction against his shaft that wouldn't come. His Master's tongue flicks against his hole, hot and strong and flexible - and Obi-Wan feels himself burning alive.
The tip licks at him playfully, gently, but his body is rocking as he is losing control over it, lost in sharp lust, elevated only higher by the desperate need buzzing under his skin. The motion is oppressive, hot and slick. Repetition in the nerve-wrenching movements making him whine. The sounds made by his Master's mouth - obscene, dirty and so wet.
Flickering, light and then hard, smooth and swirling. Conquering his body with a pattern drawn up in tongue.
Vader kisses him one last time and thrusts inside, making Obi-Wan's muscles spasm and lock in place, overwhelmed by everything that is happening to him.
His Master's palms massage his thighs, urging him to relax, to lean into the sensation, but it seems impossible.
He is lost.
Searing fingers travel across his body, cup his testicles, before lightly tapping his standing member.
Obi-Wan whines, his teeth deeply embedded inside the inner side of his own cheek, but when his Master's fingers wrap around the base of his cock, his mouth falls open.
The tongue inside him thrusts up, opening him on the expanding thickness of the muscle and the whimpers that start to escape Kenobi's mouth are growing more indecent with every breath he draws.
His Master takes him with his mouth, fucking his skilled tongue inside deeper, licking and sucking his hole in between. Wet, filthy sounds - too loud in the quiet of their bedroom - steal his breath away with all-consuming arousal.
Obi-Wan feels himself breaking, piece by piece. Crumbling, as his Master corrodes at him like steady waves ruin a mountain.
The tight circle of long fingers around his cock starts to move and Obi-Wan sees stars. He witnesses galaxies being made and destroyed, he witnesses the Force slowly breathing in everything around him.
And then his Master opens his palm and presses it to the sensitive swell of his slick head, before starting to rub just against the weeping slit.
Obi-Wan screams.
He locks his legs around Sith's head, claws at his skin and rides his face, pressing down and forward, shaking as he comes.
White strands mess up his Master's hand, his hair, dribble down onto his forehead.
Obi-Wan can taste the coppery tang of blood on his tongue, but his body is too busy breaking up and rebuilding itself back together.
It is possible he cries - his cheeks are hot and wet. He doesn't care.
Nothing is important at that moment.
After a short while, Vader gently takes him off, laying his body beside his own, like a doll.
Obi-Wan pants, his limbs heavy and unmoving, his mind static and vacant. He can barely take in the sight of his Master reaching down with the same hand that is still soiled and sticky with Obi-Wan's cooling seed.
Vader takes his own cock out and although Obi-Wan had just experienced the most mind-shattering orgasm of his life, he can't help the shiver that rushes through his body. His Master's shaft is fat and deliriously inviting. He briefly thinks about taking that member inside and a whimper escapes his lips.
Vader's long thick fingers wrap themselves around his shaft, and he starts a vicious, desperate pace - as if he is chasing after Obi-Wan even in pleasure, not willing to let them separate in anything.
Obi-Wan watches in awe as his Master works himself over the edge, so quickly and fervently, while seeking out the contact with his skin. Kenobi feels his Master’s orgasm, instead of hearing it. Dry lips chafe his shoulder, but it too, feels like a revelation.
***
They lay in bed together one day, his body pressed closely to his Master's. It feels like he fills all the crevices and nooks of the older man's frame. Where his Master is lacking Obi-Wan is there to fit into that space, while his own figure is bending to fit all the jagged edges already there. It feels natural. It feels right.
Anakin shaped him into the perfect mould and now his body is there to accommodate Vader, so effortlessly. So easily.
Their skin is pressed together, as they rest joined, warm and flawlessly compatible.
"Do you remember the day I took you as my apprentice?" Vader whispers to him, his lips moving against his skin like a caress.
His fingers lightly play with Obi-Wan's hair in the way that makes him want to melt.
"Of course I do, Master," he says in the same cadence as the man behind him. Vader hums.
The skin of his neck tingles, generous love-bites slowly turning into bright hickies. Vader is, above all else, possessive.
"It always confused me why no one snatched you from me before that day," the Sith tells him, his hands roaming over Kenobi's frame, reclaiming every inch of it as his own, "It didn't make sense, you were so bright, so talented. How could Jinn be the only Master watching you, when the sales were supposed to be crowded with all the available Masters."
Obi-Wan closes his eyes. Remembers Master Jinn's words. Remembers all the reprimands from Master Yoda, Master Drallig, his own clan Master.
It doesn't hurt him still, but the memory leaves an unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth.
"I was impulsive," he recollects, dutifully, like his Master had given him instructions, "Reckless. A rule-breaker. A rebel. Not the qualities one seeks in a Padawan."
Vader's hold on his body strengthens, his irritation palpable in the Force. He growls quietly, maddened.
"Bantha-shit," he spits out, his breath hot and moist against Obi-Wan's bare skin. It makes him shiver, "You had excellent basic level of katas, you were gifted with premonitions so accurate not many adult Knights could've compared. You were smart, sharp and Light, an incredible combination. Like a tiny sun. No, no rebellious qualities could undermine that to make you unwanted by others. I saw Padawans much worse and with far less promise than you being trained."
Obi-Wan leans into the touch, still gentle, despite the emotional outburst. The Force is clouded, weighted by the darkness emanating from the Sith, yet he remains tender with the way his body embraces Obi-Wan's. Always mindful, loving whilst handling his Padawan. Like a treasure.
"So?" Obi-Wan asks, after a beat of silence stretches between them, "Did you ever find the reason behind such an occurrence?"
"I did, yes."
"So, what was it?"
"Yoda. It was his meddling," Vader answers and there's a scorching fire beneath his words, like searing lava beneath the burning stones of the volcanic planet, "He thought you would be good for Jinn. So he strayed the others away, justifying it with the Will of the Force. Kriffing bantha fodder. He thought I would take that scum-ball you fought against. Like I could go past your brightness and not take you for myself. Jinn was a stuck-up karker, who couldn't see past his own insecurities to get you for himself, but still, I am grateful to him. Had he been smarter, I wouldn't have gotten you, my sweetling."
Obi-Wan for a second thinks how the Galaxy would have been different had Master Yoda decided not to interfere. Had Master Qui-Gon offered to be his Master instead. Would Anakin still turn to the dark side of the Force? Would the galaxy still lay in ruins?
What would have been, had he been send to Agricorps?
Vader's mouth leaves soft kisses along the column of his neck and Obi-Wan let's himself weep for the future that never came to pass, because of decisions made for his fate, devoid of his input.
The future is always in motion. Ever-changing, fluid - it knows only its own course.
Obi-Wan intertwines his fingers with the golden-plated ones and thinks how much of this was predisposed from the very beginning, since the very first time he, as a thirteen-year old, took his Master's hand in his.
Perhaps the Universe saw them apart and braided their lives together like the two strands of cord. Or perhaps the Force moulded Obi-Wan, the way he is, the way he will one day grow into, just right for its beloved child to play with, to thread his clever fingers in red hair and tug. Something for him to hold.
Obi-Wan places his head on the broad shoulder and thinks quietly to himself - so that nobody else, not even the Force itself, could hear - that maybe - he didn't object to it as much as he wanted to.
Maybe he even liked it. Just a little bit.
***
He is ripped from his dreams violently; the sudden change leaves him heaving and shaking.
The bed is empty. It is a foreign feeling now, since the very first night they had shared a sleeping space, Vader hadn't left.
He whimpers, blindly looking for his source of comfort, because the dream still haunts him, refusing to withdraw its claws. Obi-Wan tumbles down, entangled in sheets that cling to his sweating skin.
He scrambles, following a familiar presence like a beacon of light in suffocating darkness, mind still filled with echoes of cries and clashing sabers.
Obi-Wan finds Vader outside, in the sitting room, getting dressed. That is when he remembers.
His Master had been called away. The Emperor asked for him specifically, to fly out and deal with the rising disturbances in the Mid Rim space. They had talked about it. Vader held him close and told him that he would be quick, that everything would be done swiftly, so he can return to his Padawan.
And now Obi-Wan stands there, hollowed from the inside and filled with that dreadful feeling of knowing something bad is about to happen. Like the heavy air pressing on the skin before the thunder rains, squeezing the body in its tight, suffocating hold./
The foreboding twists his insides, makes his limbs numb.
The images flash in his mind like a murder of spooked crows. Faceless men and women dying, scared, screaming. Lightsabers flashing, blue then green then finally red. Jedi dying. What’s left of them going out of the galaxy like blown-out candles. The stench of burning flesh, the shudder of the Force and then Darkness. All-encompassing, smothering Darkness.
Masters at the Temple used to tell him that premonitions are a dangerous gift. One that often blinds, rather than guides a Jedi. The Future is fluid, they would tell him, and so the visions of the future could be just that. Visions. Nothing else.
Master Anakin, however, always told him to trust his guts. Obi-Wan's premonitions were rare, but they shepherded him, like a man with his eyes closed by a blindfold. They steered him from danger, whispering pathways to ease his walk.
Vader walks around, slowly closing himself off with each piece of armour he puts on and Obi-Wan moves from side to side, his bare feet cold on the harsh floor, but it feels so far away, so unimportant in the face of the greater turmoil in his chest.
He doesn't want Vader to go. He feels something terrible will happen if he does.
"Obi-Wan? Sweetling, go back to bed. It is still too early, you can sleep in," his Master says, fastening the chest plate over his ribs, Force signature dark and calm, like always. "I won't be gone for long, I promise. I'll be back before you can miss me."
Obi-Wan feels the Force around him tighten, like the strings of a Nabooian lyre. Warning him. Urging him.
His mind is racing, searching for a way to make Vader stay, knowing that if he were to simply ask, his Master will demand a reason.
And Obi-Wan doesn't have one viable enough to deter a Sith Lord.
That is why he stalks forward. The desperate need fills him with confidence he doesn't have. But it is of little importance - Vader lifts his gaze to look at him and the surprise in his eyes is slowly morphing into hunger.
"Baby, what is it that you think you're doing?" he asks, voice already growing deeper, as Obi-Wan's hands find their way to the sleek belt around his hips.
Kenobi doesn't answer. Instead, he unclasps the buckle, looking right into his Master's eyes.
He is not well-versed into the arts of seduction, but what he always was is a fast learner.
He rises on his tiptoes, mouth slightly parted and eyelids lowered, focused on nothing else, but making sure Vader wants him more than he needs to leave.
Vader's breath is hot against his lips and when he reaches down, Obi-Wan steps back on his heel, leaving him wanting.
His fingers slither beneath the thick material of Sith's trousers. It's a tight space, but Obi-Wan doesn't need much. Just enough to tease the exposed warm skin with the press of his fingertips. Goading. Riling the man up.
It doesn't take much.
Vader is perpetually hungry for him. It is his biggest drive, his blind spot. The Sith is eager for his touch, his presence, his love. Offered freely, never forced. Coercion feels bitter on his tongue, makes his face twist in disgust and anger. That is the Anakin in him. A greedy man born into the universe devoid of both possession and free will.
Now Vader wants to own him, and he wants Obi-Wan to brand himself -his- readily, by choice.
Obi-Wan learned the art of Negotiation from every source he could. The dusty books and dull monotonous lectures. He had visited the Senate fastidiously, listened to smiling politicians tell things so vile, they should have been banned, but instead they were cheered. Applauded.
Obi-Wan was a good student. He knew how to get attention and how to keep it. How to make others listen. How to make them think they came up with it all on their own.
With Vader, it is slightly different. He can't talk around, can't wrap the topic nicely and put a pretty bow on top. His Master was never one for conversing.
Anakin Skywalker was a man of action.
So their negotiations always resembled a dance. The tug and pull, the give and take.
And Obi-Wan isn't greedy. He will gladly offer something in return for his Master's unwilling participation.
"I had a bad dream," he murmurs, voice hushed to that uncertain line between intimacy and nervousness. It is not even a lie. "I don't want to be alone. Could you stay with me?"
His hand trails south, fingers dragging through the thatch of coarse pubic hair, only to feel the bulge below thicken. It fills him with cheeky firmness, solidifying his decision. Obi-Wan's own skin heats up, warm anticipation and honeyed seeds of desire taking hold of his lower belly.
"If I'll be good, will you stay?" Kenobi asks, breath hot against the base of Vader's neck, where his mouth is mere inches away from the skin, "I can be good for you, Master. I promise."
The Sith lets out a guttural, punched-out groan. Obi-Wan can practically feel his cock twitching in the confines of his own trousers.
Obi-Wan slowly descends onto his knees, looking up at the man with a heated gaze. He carefully presses his lips into the visible swell, clueless on how it is supposed to work, but still willing to try his hardest. Anything for his Master.
Vader's hand comes down to his head, sudden and hard. Like he needs to steady himself – like, for a second, Obi-Wan made him falter.
It is an inebriating feeling. Arousal barbs its sharp sides into him, potent and thrilling.
"Padawan... what..."
Obi-Wan doesn't let him finish. He rubs his cheek along the bulge, feeling the rough material against his soft skin. Vader groans again, his Force signature growing fuzzy, before snapping back, honed with lust.
"Have you ever done this before?" he asks, although they both know the answer. Almost like he just wants a confirmation, a verbal admission.
Never. No one. Only you.
Obi-Wan shivers, as Vader's warm fingers encircle his chin and force him to look up. They say the eyes are the mirror of one’s soul. Obi-Wan is certain the only thing in the deep trenches of his eyes is the silhouette of his Master. The imprint of him, retained in his retinas.
"No, I've never... will you teach me, Master? I want to make it nice for you. Will you help me?"
"Of course, Padawan."
They move to the sofa, stumbling backwards, when Vader yanks him upwards and Obi-Wan finally clashes their lips together. His kissing is still unpractised, artless, but he is learning. Vader moans when their tongues touch and Obi-Wan knows he is getting better. He wants to be good for his Master. The best.
Vader drops down, sitting on the edge of the couch, and pulling Kenobi with him. He falls to his knees, the harsh cold floor uncomfortable for his exposed skin, but he doesn't even fully open his mouth before a pillow is shoved on the floor.
Obi-Wan shifts closer, still on his knees, until he settles on softness instead of durasteel.
His face is at the level of Vader's crotch, so he mouths his gratitude along the outline of his Master's cock.
From there, he lets his hands take control before his anxieties could. Vader looks at him with hazy, clouded eyes, darkened by the arousal evident on his body. Obi-Wan slowly loosens his trousers, opens them up enough to expose the impressive swell of his black underwear.
His mouth slowly waters. He never could imagine that the thought of someone else's cock could make him feel this way, but his Master was always his first.
In so many ways.
Obi-Wan presses his lips back to the bulge, feeling its warmth radiating so much more now, with only a thin layer of material in the way.
There is a slight wet spot right at the top and he whimpers at the thought of his Master getting wet for him.
He follows the outline of the thick shaft with his mouth, from the base to the very top. The wet spot tastes strange when Obi-Wan darts his tongue to try it. Vader fists the smooth exterior of the sofa in his durasteel hand. It crackles.
Obi-Wan tries to take the head of his Master's cock into his mouth through the fabric of his underwear.
He fails, but his attempt makes Vader's member throb so violently, Obi-Wan can feel it beneath his tongue.
The spot only grows bigger.
"Take it off," his Master rasps, fingers twitching like he desperately wants to touch him but doesn't dare, "Please, Obi-Wan."
It sounds too much like pleading. Obi-Wan never refused his Master in his life.
His cock springs out and Kenobi feels his heart spreading.
This close, he can see the hard member in all its glory. Thick and lengthy, adorned by a few bulging veins circling the shaft like serpents.
Obi-Wan looks at the head, meaty, pink and already wet.
He blinks, awkwardly, when he realises that he has been staring for too long. Vader is patient, waiting for him to take his bearings. To decide if he truly wants it.
He does.
Very much so.
Obi-Wan's digits encircle the base, the pads of his fingertips pressing together to make it good. It felt good when his Master touched him with his tight fist, his fingers warm and strong against Obi-Wan's engorged flesh. He just hopes his are not too far off.
Kenobi moves his hand slowly, trying out the movement and the grip, and Vader above him chokes on a low desperate noise. Smiling, Obi-Wan lowers his head and opens his mouth to taste.
The tip on his tongue is hot and salty. Obi-Wan thinks about his teeth, thinks about his gag reflex - would Vader thrust up into his throat? Can he even take him?
His mind is getting distracted, so he refocuses on the task at hand.
He can't fit Vader's cock inside his mouth, so instead he just licks.
His tongue seems to know how to pleasure his Master better than his brain does. Vader is getting more vocal each time Obi-Wan wraps the flat of his tongue around his head and laps.
He follows the textured lines of his veins, sucks on the tip ever so often, without trying to take him too deep.
The slit oozes more salty, somewhat bitter pre-come and Obi-Wan makes an entire little spectacle out of licking it up.
His hand works in tandem with his mouth. He lets a bit of drool pool down, using it to smooth the movement of his palm on the hard flesh. Vader's shaft is throbbing and Obi-Wan likes this feeling much more than he ever thought he would. It feels incredible, to be able to cause someone that much pleasure.
His Master whimpers when Obi-Wan lets the head of his cock pull out his cheek from the inside, as he licks inside the little skin pocket just beneath the ridge of the tip.
He even develops a taste for it, as he laps at the shaft from the very base to the top, like one would enjoy a sweet sugary treat on a stick.
His lips get tingly and tender from the overuse and his jaw feels tired after he indulged taking his Master inside his mouth for too long, but even those sensations he likes. It gives him immense pleasure, just seeing Vader's reaction, feeling the way his cock twitches and throbs under his hands and mouth.
He doesn't notice when his spare hand slither down and into his own underwear, where his cock also stands hard and needy.
"Obi-Wan," his Master cries, fingers finally grasping his hair and tugging, causing Kenobi to moan around his mouthful, "Baby, sweetling... I'm gonna come."
Obi-Wan hums, sealing his lips tighter and looking up through his lashes. There is spit on his lips, his chin, coating Vader's cock as he dutifully drooled all over it.
His Master had tasted Obi-Wan's come before, now it was his turn.
Obi-Wan’s own hand wrapped around his shaft doesn't stop, when Vader buckles his hips, letting a moan so lewd Obi-Wan comes before he tastes hot semen filling his mouth.
It's bitter and slimy, but he gulps it down, coaxing more with the slight movements of his tongue.
Vader doesn't let him even pull off, but instead hauls him up. He growls, fitting his mouth against Obi-Wan's.
"So good, darling, so sweet for your Master," he murmurs against Kenobi's lips, marking each word with the brush of their mouths, "Let me make you feel nice too, sweetling."
His hand wanders lower, getting inside Obi-Wan's undergarments, only to find it already occupied and sticky.
"Oh."
Vader sits back, his eyes wondrous and dark with ravenous possessiveness. He looks at Obi-Wan with adoration, as he finally colours under all that attention, filled with prickly shame of what he had just done.
"My good boy," Vader murmurs, coming to kiss him again.
Obi-Wan clings to him, when his Master stands up, holding him in his arms like a youngling. The same way he held him all those months ago, when he had just found him again. Like something treasured.
Vader takes him back to their bed, slips his sullied underwear off and tosses it somewhere Obi-Wan would not be able to find come the morning.
He watches him, anxious, until Vader finally starts to undress too, dropping his clothes with a carelessness only he is capable of.
Obi-Wan can't force himself to ask what it means that his Master will be staying. If it means that he chooses him over the orders of the Emperor, over his wrath.
Vader lays in bed with him, instantly pressing Obi-Wan close, fitting them together.
It's nice. Warm. Obi-Wan can smell the familiar scent of Anakin's skin and it fills him with a sort of weighty comfort, like a hefty cover.
"Go to sleep, sweetling. I will be here, when you wake up," Vader promises after some time of silence, his own voice heavy with sleep, as he crams their bodies together.
Obi-Wan grasps his durasteel arm, placed like a paperweight on top of him, heavy and comforting. He presses his ear to the strong, warm chest of his Master, listening to the sound of his breathing and the thud of his heart. The steady rhythm lulls him back to sleep, slowly. Softly.
***
It takes him a while, but with time Obi-Wan grasps his ground, his place next to Vader.
Once upon a time Anakin Skywalker loved him, like an older brother loves his ward. It was a warm feeling, the one that cosied him up after long nights of rejection.
Maybe later, Anakin Skywalker loved him even more, like a hungry man loves a freshly baked bread. The forbidden fruit, within the reach of one’s hand, so delightful the man goes and breaks all the branches to get to it, ushered by a hissing voice of a slithering snake.
But Vader loves him differently. Like a man who broke the garden and starved himself just for a taste. Like wildfire, like the searing heart of a vicious volcano. Like the unstoppable, untamed force of Nature itself. Always craving more.
Vader loves like an ancient almost-forgotten God and Obi-Wan is his single sacrifice. His only oblation.
It is tricky - to try and bestride something that can't be curbed.
He starts small.
Asking to stay, to stray. Talking over others, when no one can hear them, showing seeds that grow into distaste and distrust. He is a good Padawan, he knows how to please his Master.
Vader listens to him. Brings him over to cold rooms with sour people in them, where they decide the fate of the Empire.
Obi-Wan stands behind his Master's shoulder, meek, humble. Docile.
They don't hear him when he speaks. But Vader does.
Sitting behind his Master's back, hands softly kneading the hard muscles of his neck, his shoulders, Obi-Wan hides his little smile.
His dreams cease to be nightmares waking him up in the darkness of the night. The Jedi lights, so few, so rare, finally stop blowing out. They flicker, like faraway stars, and even though Obi-Wan knows he will never be able to join them, it is enough to just know they are there.
The sightings of the rebellion are happening more frequently. Obi-Wan holds his Master’s palms as they kiss, knowing they won't hurt anyone as long as he keeps them in his grasp.
Vader intertwines their fingers together and devours his mouth, murmuring sweet words into his open lips.
Obi-Wan knows he is playing with fire, that such recklessness always comes with a price, but it doesn't scare him as it used to. He knows he can't get his Master into trouble, his biggest most dreaded fear still. Everyone is terrified of the things Lord Vader is capable of, his menacing presence keeping those around him in the tight chokehold of trepidation.
Nobody dares to reprimand Vader.
Nobody, but one.
When they receive an incoming call, his Master's hands are inside the thin soft inner tunic he came to wearing in the privacy of their quarters. The man's mouth - now as familiar to Obi-Wan as as his own - leaves its imprints on the slope of his exposed neck.
Vader almost misses it entirely, too preoccupied with the exploration of his body, as if he does not get to do it daily. But at the last moment he changes his mind with an unsatisfied grumble, reaching out towards the comm unit.
Obi-Wan gives him a quick peck on the cheek, before slipping out of the embrace and away, securing the illusion of privacy.
He has no real intentions of truly leaving the man alone with his Master. He had already made that mistake before. He would not make it again.
He busied himself in the next room, stretching his senses and calming his Force signature, so firmly imbraided with his Master's it resembles a singular presence. Obi-Wan knows he cannot be seen, Lord Sidious had a preference toward holo calls, looking at his recipient with those ratty sulfuric eyes.
He can hear them greet each other, Vader's low voice rippling through the gentle hum of the ship. Their stops are sparse and short. Obi-Wan is allowed to wander around on those rare stops only under close supervision of his Master.
Vader learns from his mistakes too.
As they talk, Kenobi can hear the sickly refined cadence of the Emperor's voice. Long ago, Anakin introduced them to one another in the imposing red office of the elderly Chancellor. Palpatine talked to him gently, all smiles and kindness, but Obi-Wan did not like the look he was giving his Master. It was the look he saw in his peers when they spotted something - their children's hands wanting to grab and own. Possession was forbidden to the Jedi. And Chancellor looked at Anakin Skywalker like a youngling looked at a jar of mooncakes. With greed.
Now, he listens to them talk, discuss important business of the Empire built on fear and blood. Vader answers when he asks, and the tone of his voice is so much different to the one he uses with Obi-Wan. The one he gets to hear when big, warm palms correct his fighting stances as they train in the room his Master specifically developed just for Obi-Wan. It is spacious and empty, perfect to practise his Ataru moves, with a small area organized to help him stretch. Vader says his Soresu is improving, that in the next years he might surpass all the other practitioners he had known before. Obi-Wan thinks it is easy. Most of them are dead.
The thought fills him with a familiar heavy feeling in his chest. It still hurts, although not as devastatingly as it did before. He fears what that says about him.
The conversation grows stilted, chopped, as Vader grows bored and irritated. Sidious struggles to keep him in reins, Obi-Wan knows it, as his Master's grumbling becomes more prominent after each mission he actually attends. There are no more incentives for Palpatine to give him, no more carrots to dangle before his nose. No more thoughtful advice or fatherly support he could provide. Obi-Wan had made sure of it, as he slowly superseded him.
There are no more Jedi that could plot against him. No more Jedi that could take his beloved Padawan away, because they are afraid. The Jedi are gone, but Obi-Wan remains, still faithful and devoted to his Master. Still loving him above all else.
"Lord Vader," the Sith Emperor calls for him. Obi-Wan strains his senses just to listen closely. Palpatine's voice is strained, disgruntled, "What of Kenobi? You allow that boy too much sway in your decisions. It is starting to affect our mission."
From his hiding place, Obi-Wan can see as Vader straightens his shoulders, the Force around him going tight and heavy. When he speaks, his tone is irritated, sharp.
"My Padawan is none of your concern," he snaps crisply, fury growing within him in a matter of seconds. The fault of all Sith brewing beneath his skin, spilling down his tongue, "He is behaving with utmost respect and proves to me how invaluable his opinion is daily. Which cannot be said about the Directors and Admirals you send to me. Krennec is so insolent he should count himself lucky I've never spoken to him in person, otherwise he would not be considered a living form any longer."
Obi-Wan holds his breath, watching. The change in Sidious is subtle, barely there - blink and you'll miss it type. The fluttering of the holo-image hides it, but Kenobi can see. He spent years learning, differentiating between the tiniest muscle twitch for the sake of diplomacy. Darth Sidious is annoyed. Angered. Afraid.
"My friend, I am getting worried about you," he says, gentle and sweet, softening the edges and offering the same distorted kindliness that once worked so well it coated Obi-Wan and his entire world, "That boy is clouding your judgement."
The fury within Vader is imminent and wild. It inflames the room and threatens to melt the entirety of the comm unit taking the image of the Emperor with it. Obi-Wan thinks even through the ghostly transparent blue vision his Master's eyes are burning like the molten heart of magma planets, accursed and hateful, looking directly onto the wrinkled face.
When he finally answers, his words are so vicious, they may as well be venomous.
"Do not forget, I agreed to follow you, only because you promised that I would get to keep Obi-Wan, that the Council and the Jedi would not take him away. Yet, you failed. A year it took me. A year to find him where the Jedi stashed him, away from me. Do you imply that now, when I've finally got him back with me, where he belongs, I should send him away?"
Palpatine's features twist, the grandfatherly mask cracking at the seams. Vader doesn't notice it, too preoccupied with his own burning outrage.
"Obi-Wan knows more of loyalty than anybody ever did," his Master bellows, biting each syllable like a dog tearing out meat from the bones, savage and spiteful - wronged to his very core. "He is my Padawan. Mine. He won't ever leave. And if you would dare insinuate against him once more, Sheev, I will turn your fleets into dust and watch your Empire crumble. Watch your tongue, my Master, when you speak of him."
Obi-Wan feels warmth inside of him. It wasn't light and it wasn't good, but it felt nice and it made him tingle from the tips of his fingers right up to his shoulders. It felt heavy and made him shiver.
Vader ends the call with the aggressive flick of his fingers, still smouldering like the remaining coals after a blazing inferno.
Then, slowly, he turns around, looking into the little hideout Obi-Wan had made for himself.
His features lose their honed edges, smoothing into the expression of the amused ease, as he calls out to his apprentice.
"Have you been eavesdropping, my Padawan?" Vader asks, mirth filling out his voice into the familiar cadence that often sends shivers down Obi-Wan's back, "Naughty baby. Come here."
He extends his hand, palm up and fingers reaching out forward, enticing Obi-Wan to follow its invite.
So he goes, willingly, eagerly, faux shame on his sheepish face.
"I'm sorry, Master," he says in his best innocent voice, "I didn't mean to."
Vader chuckles, grasping him and tugging closer, until Obi-Wan lands splayed on his lap. His durasteel hand goes up, just so it can twist Obi-Wan's outgrown braid around Vader’s gold-plated finger and then tug. Obi-Wan can't contain a moan.
The rest of his strands are now long enough to braid too, but when his Master does his hair, he always leaves the little Padawan braid out, the indefinite mark of belonging.
Vader swipes his braid back, flesh digits running down the curves of his braided locks. He likes them long and soft and Obi-Wan wants to please him in every way he can.
"Don't pay attention to what Sheev is saying," murmurs Vader, coming close to leave quick hungry kisses past his jawline and down the neck. "He doesn't understand how precious you truly are."
Obi-Wan breathes in, leans into the touch, getting closer, crawling under the skin, ushering the seeds he planted to follow the lure of his voice.
Vader's hands move down to his hips, lips growing impatient and starving. Kenobi gasps, needy little sounds escaping him with the squeeze of ravenous fingers.
"I don't like him, Master," he whimpers, eyes almost glossy with unshed tears, as he slowly follows Vader's guide, rocking atop him, "He scares me. I know he wishes me harm. I distract you from serving him and he despises me for it. I'm afraid he'll find a way to hurt you, through me. Please, Master, I don't want him to hurt you."
Vader looks up to him. Eyes searching and seething, golden and hypnotic. Obi-Wan feels himself growing cold and still, turning into something else from the touch alone, something so very different from everything he was before.
It doesn't stop him from lowering down, searching for Vader's mouth and kissing it, like he could only breathe the air that escapes his Master's lungs.
Vader answers, thrusting forward, so that Obi-Wan can clearly feel the heat and firmness of his erection beneath his bottom.
"I can kill him," Vader tells him, when they part, "Would that make you feel better, sweetling? Would that make my darling, precious boy not be afraid anymore?"
Obi-Wan whines, moving sideways and dragging the man with him, as they drop on the soft bedding.
His legs come up to catch Vader's sides between his thighs, holding him down. Caging the man to his body.
"Yes, Master," he answers breathlessly, "Yes, it would."
Their clothes get discarded easily, flesh coming into contact with echoed cries of bliss. Vader's hands are roaming freely over his body, touching, feeling, grasping what is his to take. He is still craving more. Needing everything there is, everything he can have.
"Would you let me in, if I killed him?" Vader asks, seeking out the fall of the last piece of Obi-Wan he can conquer and claim for himself, "If I destroyed him for my precious little treasure?"
Obi-Wan bites his lip, as he twists his fingers inside the golden curls. He is hard and yearning, lust curling beneath his navel. He had dreamed about offering his Master a part of himself no one had ever touched before. No one had the right to take it, but him. Always him.
"Would you do it, Master? For me?"
"Anything for you, sweetling. Anything you want."
He lifts his eyes up, with bashfulness that grows its deep roots from learned coyness. His Master is blind to it, gaze hungry for the feast unfolding before him. Everything he ever wanted. Everything Obi-Wan was always willing to give freely, but now will carefully trade like the clever boy his Master taught him to be.
The Sith took something important from him. Lured the man he loved more than life itself into the sticky cobweb of lies and forced him to burn the world Obi-Wan considered home. Now, he builds his new place out of its ruins, fastens walls out of ash and lays the floor made of people that are now lost.
The Sith is evil. The purest, most disgusting kind of evil, vile, vicious creatures. The kind of heinous atrocities the Jedi were supposed to protect the Galaxy from. The kind that deserves to be punished.
But if Obi-Wan is being completely honest, it is not righteousness that motivates him as he opens his legs and bends his back, accommodating Vader between his bared creamy thighs.
The Sith took something important from him.
It would only be fair if he took something in return.