By Moonlight

by Lilith Sedai

By Moonlight
by Lilith Sedai (cara_chapel@hotmail.com)
Archive: MA ONLY
Category: Qui/Obi, PWP
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None

Notes: A PWP inspired by watching _Nell_, written to honor the MMOM while I still have time to. The boys are frustrated by all the plot-enforced separation during BTF III, and they need a smut break.

Oath of celibacy? Out of the question.

The lake is still as glass, and no breath of wind stirs as the moon of Aveis arises, pale gold against the sky, half-eclipsed by a tumble of mountain ridges. It is mirrored in the water, the faintest shimmer of motion visible there.

I stand on the shore, concealed within the fringes of the wood, lacy branches obscuring me, my cloak blending with the rich brown loam. I am still as the humid air, remote as the golden moon.

He stands by the lake as well, farther around the shore, near a jutting ridge of stone that cleaves the water. He wears only his cloak.

Waking, I saw him rise and draw it around his body. Perfectly still, I watched him steal away, bare feet sure amidst the thorny forest floor, so in tune with the Living Force he need not bother with his boots-- the plants themselves part to allow his passage as he walks.

He did not sense the Unifying Force that woke me, did not feel me wrap myself in it, so in tune was he with the moment, with the warm air on his skin and the earth beneath his feet.

I am not here.

He steps from the shadows and stands upon the stone, silhouetted against the moon, and allows his cloak to drop.

I exhale, pushing the first soft breeze across the lake, shivering the path of the moon into fragments that dance. The golden light silhouettes him, glowing in his flowing hair, across the long, hard planes of back and shoulder, drawing gilded light and shadowed velvet across the curves of his ass. He is purely beautiful, long legs and narrow waist, broad shoulders, big hands smoothing back his hair.

He steps forward with a dancer's grace, comfortable inside his skin, a pure harmony of bone and muscle and blood. I inhale, and feel him draw his breath with me. Even as the lake ruffles, the lilt of air across his skin speaks to him, and he turns to face the moon, stretching, long arms dark against its golden face. His legs shift, sensual, to balance his body, to make room for the swelling I am sure he feels. He tips his head back, in silent worship of the night. It worships him as well, his dancing silhouette dark on the face of the golden path the moon casts in the waters.

The path reaches to my feet.

I almost feel I could walk upon it, step forth upon the waters and never sink, go to him and reach around his waist, caress him like the air and the golden light.

I am still.

His arm curls, the moonlight a shining shaft between his elbow and his waist as he takes himself in hand. I can see the golden light glowing in the velvety hairs that cover his legs, catching in the finer hairs on his waist, the faintest velvet shine of them bringing his entire skin to life. He strokes himself, slowly, breathing. His shoulders rise and fall. There is no hurry in him-- he shakes his head softly, tossing his hair behind his back, and I hear him sigh.

The wind and I echo him, and I envy the air that caresses his golden flesh, the moonlight that is permitted to spill over him, as I am not.

He turns, and I catch sight of his shaft for a fleeting moment, cradled in his hand, before it is lost in shadow as he tips his head back to look up at the stars.

He moves, and I feel it in the soft lapping of the waves at my feet, the gentle rhythm of him, the harmony he has with this place. I lift my chin and breathe, and the wind lifts his hair, its warm pressure shattering the surface of the water. It caresses him, and his strokes speed even as the lapping wavelets break on the shore.

The world is his lover, the lake and the wind and the golden moon, and I am one with them. I move my hand, and the light slides over the plane of his ribs, catching the shallow declivities there. I let my tongue taste my lip, and the wavelets caress his feet. I breathe, and the wind strokes his skin.

He is moaning now, the faintest sound deep in his throat, as his hand moves. The wind hears him and answers, sighing through the evergreens far overhead. Yes. I whisper with the night, and he obeys, moving again, and I can see his hand at work, sliding along the thick column of his flesh, pausing to curl about the tip, constricting along the shaft.

He steps along the stone, nearer the end of the natural quay, and I let my hand rise to cup the shape of him, the perfect ebb and flow of the muscles of his ass, the air tickling him where it so rarely touches. His hand moves faster now, serenity forgotten, as the airs rise around him, teasing his hair, a warm caress, its mild vortex centered on the energy of his passion.

He arches, and I inhale his cry, drawing the motion out of the night and containing it within myself, my eyes fixed on the curl and bow of his body, the way his hair falls as his shoulders tip back and back, the quivering tension of him, taut-strung, as his release rains softly into the lake.

He eases, slowly, and straightens himself, milking his body clean. I hear him laugh for joy in the moment before he dives, cleaving the water with barely a ripple.

I step farther into shadows, which welcome me, and when his head breaks the surface, hair gleaming slick against his scalp, plastered wet against his throat and shoulders, I leave him to the swirl of the cool waters and return to my lonely blankets.

The night opens before me, and the darkness shifts aside to let me pass.