Choose Your Words || A Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker Story

Chapter 17: Desire Him

Anakin is still not feeling well after the miserable, sleepless night he had. Or maybe it’s the aftermath of yesterday’s Light infusion. He feels like he is hungover or, perhaps, even still a little drunk. It is as though he is moving through a haze, as though everything is covered with a barely discernible veil fluttering slightly in the breeze. He is so drowsy and dizzy that when at some point he finds himself sitting in a chair at the head of a long conference table with a few outrageously overdressed Senators around it, he is not even surprised that he doesn’t exactly remember how he got there. He has no idea what is being discussed either, but judging by the stubborn expressions on the Senators’ faces and how they are shouting at him and each other, their voices a distant, muffled, angry rumble, the negotiations aren’t going too well.

Anakin’s skin breaks out in a cold sweat.

What is going on? Why is he the one doing this in the first place? Where is his Master?

An iron grip of panic clenches his heart so tightly that he forgets how to breathe. He starts reaching for his lightsaber, almost on autopilot, needing the reassurance of her weight in his hand to stop the wave of nervous nausea, but then, thankfully, he feels his Master’s magnificent presence in the Force wash over him – a breath of crisp, salty air taking Anakin’s dizziness away and making the little hairs on his nape stand on end with sharp attention.

The Jedi comes to stand behind Anakin’s chair, his hands landing on his shoulders, and the possessiveness of the gesture makes Anakin feel as if the ground disappeared from under his feet and he suddenly whooshed down from a great height. Not good, not good at all for his poor, hungover mind…

Anakin lets out an involuntary gasp when the world starts spinning wildly around him, his Master’s face the only solid, immovable point in the whirlwind of broken, distorted shapes.

And the mere way he is looking down at Anakin – dangerous, predatory, hungry – the look he has never ever given him before… Anakin feels hot and weak under the intensity of that gaze, arousal immediately pooling in his lower belly like liquid fire.

“I see you’re raising your voices at my apprentice, Senators,” his Master drawls, deliberately calm and not even taking his smiling eyes off of Anakin to look at them. “Is he being incompetent again?”

Anakin stares up at him, not trying to excuse his behavior, not even daring to breathe, like prey fascinated by a serpent’s gaze.

The Senators shift in their chairs uncomfortably, their expressions resembling those of trapped animals.

“The Negotiator himself.” Their reverent whispers rustle through the room.

“Master, I–” Anakin whispers too, not really grasping what exactly is going on, the reality treacherously slipping through his fingers and refusing to register in his brain, hazy with arousal, so he just stops trying to catch it altogether and does the only clear thing on his mind – reaches up to caress his Master’s cheek…

A sudden sharp order almost physically slaps his palm away.

“Hands on the armrests.”

“Yes, Master,” Anakin utters, startled and wide-eyed, and clutches at his chair until his knuckles go white with the strain of his nervous grip.

He throws his head back onto the headrest, looking up at his Master like a lovesick puppy awaiting commands. Surely, Master knows what is happening. He will tell him what to do, won’t he?

The Jedi smiles, contented, and slides his hand down Anakin’s chest and back up, along his neck, making him tilt his head back even further and exposing the vulnerable line of his throat in the most possessive gesture imaginable.