Master Apprentice Archive Colla Voce Quick search:

Series:  Theme and Timbre

Archive:  Yes please, T&T, MA, OKEB!  Whoever wants it; just let me know where it ends up.

Pairing:  Obi-Wan/Bruck Chun

Category:  non-Q/O, POV, PWP

Rating:  R

Summary:  an interlude in the showers

Disclaimer:  not mine, alas, no matter *how* many toys I buy. Everything here belongs to George.

Feedback:  of any variety is very much appreciated, but not essential -- I'll post anyway!  I've suffered for my art, now it's your turn....

Notes:  this is all RavenD's fault.  Blame her. <g>  It's also a Merry Month of Masturbation wankfic, so expect things to be taken firmly in hand....Thanks to RavenD, Dee, and Emu for input!

*  * = italics

Colla voce:  to follow the solo instrument or voice

***

I don't know when I first noticed he was beautiful.

Look at him, standing in the spray, letting the water clear away the sweat and the strain of the training salles.  I've known him
all my life and hated him for most of it, it seems, childhood rivalry a habit never grown out of even after we no longer had any
cause to fight.  He has been a constant, competing presence from my earliest memories, a rival to be bested, a foe to be
vanquished --

Gods, I'd give anything to kiss him.

Control.  I don't need this.  I don't need *him*.  We've not spoken in over two years, have barely been in the Temple at the
same time, a far cry from the constant proximity of our youth. He's a part of my past, nobody I need concern myself with now.  I have a master, a future....

But he's not a child any more.  No more than I am.

Enough.  I should just let the water play over my own body, easing the aching muscles.  I doubt he's even noticed me so why should I concern myself with him?  I should forget about him standing there, warm rivulets coursing across the hard planes of his body, stray droplets shining in the damp brush of his hair, dripping from the end of his long braid.  I should leave, just turn and go, let another year or more pass before I even think of him again....

I should do a lot of things.

I can't move.

Oh gods, he's touching himself.  One strong hand drifting to his furred groin as the other ghosts across a dark nipple... does he
know that I'm here, is he teasing me?  Or is he just casually releasing a little tension?  He'd hardly be the first padawan to
use the facilities for the purpose.  Or the last, if my own body has its way....

No.  *Control*.

Fuck, he's even better hung than I thought, toying idly with his cock as it swells and darkens in the loose grip of his hand.  What
is he thinking about?  *Who* is he thinking about?  Who has the use of that finely-honed body, those lightning reflexes?  That fat cock and tightly-perfect arse?  Whose name does he scream when he --

I'm hard, aching at the thought of him in another's thrall.

So much for control.

His eyes are closed, his vision turning inwards as he slowly, so slowly, begins to stroke his shaft.  That's good -- he can't see
me as I mirror his actions, my traitorous imagination replacing my hand with his.  Oh, yes, just like that.  His hand on me, his
mouth, the tight cavern of that sculpted arse hot around me as he thrashes and pleads --

No, lose that thought, lose it now or this will be over *fast*. Save it for later, for when he's not wantonly pumping his cock
before me, blue eyes lidded and smoothly handsome face turned upwards into the spray, white braid plastered against his
chest....  Does he know what he looks like?  The effect he has? As a child, he was creche-mate turned challenger, nothing more, not this... elegantly erotic creature....

When did he change?

When did *I* change, to want him like this?

Faster now, white teeth catching at his lower lip as his foreskin slides back and forth, back and forth across the gleaming head.
Feels good, feels so *good* as I match his rhythm, driving myself harder.  Oh gods, I want to touch him, want him to touch me, his hand dark against my skin, his breath hot against my back.  I want to fuck him until he screams, want to feel him inside me, want to taste his mouth, his throat, his seed.  I want to take and be taken, I want to leave welts, bruises, bites, I *want*....

He's leaning forward, one palm flat against the tiles as the other increases the pace.  I can see his balls, heavy and tight beneath
the pale fringe of his pubic hair, ready, oh gods, so *ready*.... Legs spread, body bent, panting open-mouthed in the spray that
beats against him --

He looks like a whore.

Anybody could walk in.  Anybody could catch him.

Catch *us*.

Oh gods, the thought of it -- some knight finding him like that. Finding him, grabbing those lean, tawny hips and just....

Oh....

....so close so close so close so close so *close*....

His body jerks, muscles stiffening as his climax hits and I --

Oh.

Oh *gods*!

The water is warm against my body, the tile hard against my hip, my arm.  How did...?  I don't remember falling but that was
just --

He's looking at me.

How much did he see?

And how much did I want him to see?

END