Master Apprentice Archive Just One Touch Quick search:

Archive: M_A, my site, others please ask first

Category: POV, Angst

Pairing: none (OK, Obi/hand ;-)

Rating: R

Feedback: Yes, please! Any time, any way, onlist or off. Good or bad, I can take it. ghouses@ureach.com or ghouses@yahoo.com

Summary: Anakin watches as Obi-Wan fantasizes

Disclaimer: "This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Lucasfilm Ltd. No money is being made and no infringement is intended." That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Notes: A big thank you goes to Gloriana and Nansi Alexander, who both made excellent suggestions and pointed out embarrassing errors.

I'd forgotten about the camera.

When I first came to the Jedi Temple some ten years ago, I was just a small boy, very cold and very frightened. I hid the fear, hid it well, because of Master Yoda's mantra that fear leads to anger. I fell back on old habits, and scavenged everything I could lay my hands on, determined to shape and control my new environment. It was easy. Temple resources are shared -- an idea foreign to me at first -- and my taking bits and pieces of equipment didn't rouse any suspicion.

Master Obi-Wan had a different room, on a different level, in a huge building. He told me that Initiates slept together, but that Padawans had earned the privilege of their own rooms to study and meditate in. It didn't seem a privilege to me at the time, and the first few nights were terrible, so I made a camera system.

It was easy to place the tiny camera in the corner of Master Obi-Wan's room, facing the main area and bed, while we were supposed to be meditating together. Then, when I was scared at night, I could turn on my terminal and watch him until I fell asleep.

As I became more familiar with my new home, I found other activities to occupy my evenings before bedtime, and by our third mission together the terminal was forgotten, relegated to my closet which was bursting with tools, parts and supplies.

But today was the tenth anniversary of Master Qui-Gon's death. We were usually off planet when that day came around -- I think Obi-Wan conspired to have us away -- but this anniversary was marked by a brief ceremony on Coruscant, and of course we attended. A bronze bust of Qui-Gon was revealed which would grace the Hall of the Archives in the Temple library, and Obi-Wan couldn't stop staring at it. But he didn't move to inspect it, or say a word of comment, and left abruptly for his rooms directly afterward, with his hood pulled up. I wished I could make sure he was okay, and then I remembered the camera.

By the time I got back to my own room, fished the terminal out, and reconnected it to the old camera feed, Obi-Wan was dressed only in the sleep pants he always wore and was standing by his bed. He'd activated one of the many holograms of Qui-Gon he kept and placed it on his bedside table. It showed Qui-Gon standing behind him, with his large hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder.

Then my Master did a strange thing.

He stood beside his bed and placed his right hand on his left shoulder. When I looked closely, I realized he was shifting his hand, as if trying to adjust it just so as he gazed at the holopic. He left it there for a moment, tightened the grip, and rubbed in slow, small circles, considering.

His face relaxed and he closed his eyes, as if he'd been unsure and was now decided. Very slowly, he began running his hands over his bare chest. Obi-Wan's hands are large for his size, but graceful, and the fingers nimbly began skimming the skin around his nipples.

His eyes opened and he gasped softly as his fingers tweaked them, then he sank slowly onto the bed. As he lay back he licked one hand and returned it to his nipple. He used the nail to tweak it, then the moistened fingers to tease and rub. He said something... The blasted audio had never worked but I knew the word -- I said it every day.

"Master."

I sat back in my chair, stunned, then quickly recovered and sharpened the image.

Obi-Wan wasn't just masturbating; he was fantasizing.

His hands caressed his neck and the fine line of his collarbone. He touched his face briefly, softly; he slowly ran his fingers through his hair, touched his eyes, stroked his cheeks and then stilled.

He was flushed and his muscled chest rose and fell at a fast rate.

Just when I thought he might stop he moved again, lightly running one hand along the smooth skin of his waist. He played with a patch above his hipbone, on the right side, just above the line of his pants, while his other hand returned to rub almost roughly across one nipple.

Then in a flurry of motion, he pulled the sleep pants off, tossed them on the floor and lay back again. His cock was already jutting out, the tip an angry red.

He canted his hips to his right side and traced his rear with his left hand, alternately gripping and skimming the skin lightly. His right hand enveloped his cock, but he didn't stroke it, just used his thumb to tease the head. Then he brought his left hand to his mouth and sucked on the center finger and I knew what he was going to do and felt myself harden in response.

He parted his ass cheeks with his thumb and other fingers and began to tease his entrance with the middle finger, then thrust it slowly in, and slightly rotated his hand to get a deeper entry. He panted open-mouthed now and his eyes were squeezed shut. I could see the muscles on his left forearm flex as he moved the finger inside himself, then he gasped and the right hand began to pump as he rocked. The rhythm picked up -- he shifted back onto his left hand and thrust up into the right.

He rode himself for many minutes then appeared to shout, and I knew the word he cried -- "Qui-Gon!"

His come pulsed out over his hand and onto his belly and the sheets as he stiffened -- right hand still pumping -- then relaxed.

He lay still for several minutes, then withdrew his finger and unclasped his cock, and quickly sat up. He looked stunned rather than sated. He shuddered and brought his hands up to cover his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.

I'd never seen my Master so undone and I felt a quick but deep stab of sympathy for him.

I realized I was breathing heavily, and I closed my eyes for a few seconds, to gain back my own control after what I'd just witnessed. When I looked at the terminal again, Obi-Wan was still sitting with his shoulders hunched. Then he jerked his hands away from his face, looking at them and the fluids on them with vague disgust. He stood and disappeared from the camera's view into his small 'fresher.

He walked back a bit later, dried his hands and wiped his face and neck with a towel, then dabbed -- with the same disgusted look as before -- at the wet spot on the bed sheets. He tossed the towel into the laundry recycler when he was finished, retrieved his pants from the floor, and pulled them on quickly and efficiently.

Then he spotted the out-of-place holo of Master Qui-Gon.

He picked it up almost reverently and stared at it. His face was towards the camera and I could see emotions flit across his face that I never saw on my serene Master. Sadness, longing, and then a look I was quite familiar with -- I engendered it often enough -- exasperation, not quite anger.

Oh, Master Qui-Gon, did you never want him, or did you just not act on your want? He would have been yours for just one touch.

His hands must have shook because the holo image flickered on my small display. He switched the image off, then moved a few paces to place it -- gently -- back on the shelf with the other holos.

He went to his wardrobe where his tunics for the next day were carefully folded and placed, where his robe hung neatly on a hook, and where his always-polished boots set. Pulling open a small drawer, he removed a datapad and walked back towards the bed.

I relaxed and nearly switched off the display. I knew what would happen now. Master Obi-Wan would sit up in bed and study the briefing material for our next mission -- to Ansion this time. Then he would set the pad on the bed table, roll onto his side, pull the cover over him just so, pat it down, voice down the lights and, presumably, fall directly asleep.

The *sameness* of Obi-Wan's precise routines, and his immaculate room compared to my chaotic one was a comfort to me when I was young and alone. I would turn off this very display and try to imitate him, and not think about how dark and lonely my small room seemed.

But this night, as he prepared to fall into the familiar routine, he stopped, and just stared at the bed. He dropped the datapad carelessly on the floor -- I could hear it clatter in my mind's ear -- and it landed on its face.

He sat down heavily, then curled into a ball with his arms between his knees and just stared forward.

I sat, mesmerized, as he did nothing for long minutes. I was so immersed in watching him that I started away from the terminal when it went dark. The lights in Obi-Wan's quarters dimmed after half a cycle if there was no movement at all within.

Sighing, I switched off the terminal and went, slowly, to my own bed. For once, I could be better prepared than my Master if I studied the Ansion briefing, but I was exhausted. Besides, he had given me a lot to think about.

All right, one person to think about. Padme. When fate brought us together again, I wouldn't make the mistakes Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon made. I'd not live with nothing but dreams and regrets. No, when we met again, and the Force screamed that we would, I'd make her mine. No matter the cost.

It would start with just one touch.

End