Master Apprentice Archive Room Service: Library Quick search:

Rating: PG

Summary: Just what is Obi-Wan reading so intently?

Feedback: Written or shouted, pleeease! :)

Notes: The second in the Room Service series, another little PWP, and a reply to Whoeveritwas' Merry Month Of Masturbation Challenge.

Also, this one's in memoriam DNA, whose sci-fi was the only I ever read. May he rest in the Force & always know where his towel is.

When I emerge from the maze of movable bookcases and shelves into the yellowish half-light of the Padawans' reading area, the first thought that strikes me is how red his hair looks in this light.

He is alone as far as I can see, which is only just seeing as the hazy yellow sunset at this time of year would make it close to midnight, and whatever the awed general public thinks, that is not normally the hour when one would expect to find a Jedi studying. Especially not a Padawan.

Especially not my Padawan.

Even I must admit I am a little amazed at the studiousness he's been exhibiting recently -- I certainly hadn't expected him to be in the library at this time of day, and it was more by chance I picked up his Force signature, dimmed and muted, drawn closer around him in concentration. I bet he doesn't even notice me standing a few feet behind him, only half-hidden by the shelves.

His hair is exceedingly red, reflecting the mute golden evening light and effortlessly outshining the eternally-fogged Coruscant sky. He's had it cut recently and I can see the soft pale skin of his scalp shining through the short red-golden bristles at the nape. I can almost feel them, and he knows perfectly well I am ready to do just about anything to run my fingers through that bit of freshly-cropped hair and inhale the clean warm scent of him and lick the exposed skin, feeling the prickly hair on my tongue and working my way upwards until all I get is a mouthful of wet hair and all Obi-Wan gets is impatient. And that usually results in such violent attacks on my hair that some mornings I am frankly surprised I still have so much of it left. Ah, my beautiful savage Padawan.

And the beauty is that all that savagery, all that raw Force, is perfectly controlled in him. I wonder if he knows he makes me jealous sometimes with his flawless poise and serenity ... I cherish the moments he abandons himself to be himself, a bolt of angry red-gold lightning in a training fight or a Meldoon tiger in bed.

Oh, but a bolt of lightning of a Meldoon tiger would never get past our good librarian of course, and so it's no more than young Obi-Wan Kenobi here, hunched over the reader terminal, a pale yellow glow from the screen reflecting on his face. No more, but certainly no less. Enough to put a worthy bright end to this day just with the sight of him. You're a foolish old man, Jinn, I've told myself numerous times, until I found I simply wouldn't listen. Sometimes not listening is the only way.

I wonder what he is reading at this late hour ... probably not his assignments for the week; knowing him and his sense of duty he is almost sure to be well past these already. Force bless him, he looks like a tiny boy again, totally engrossed by his reading, moving ever so slightly, trying to crawl into the screen ... and I am reminded of my own youth -- what had I been reading in the days when I would still have time to read pleasurable literature as opposed to Council minutes and mission reports and encyclopaedia entries, and it had all been so fresh and new to me, each idea unheard-of, each story a new world?

Tales of mystery and imagination, of far-off worlds like those the Masters would visit with their elder Padawans, places inhabited by beings with such strange names as "Dirk" or "Arthur", dressed in ridiculous clothes and inadvertently creating things like sperm whales, petunias or unexpectedly warlike ball games while sitting on a sofa that had somehow swirled out of the space-time continuum. Total nonsense of course, but now, with all my sixty years of Jedi practice I sometimes wish the universe had behaved a bit more like it did in these stories. I certainly wouldn't be the me I am if it hadn't been for them.

If I'd had my way I would probably have become a detective who likes to hang upside down. Or ... what was that funny two-headed guy called? Wore an eye-patch. Had been voted Worst-Dressed Sentient Being in the Galaxy before being elected president (always a nice career move, I should have thought) ... definitely a role model. Force knows I devoured that stuff as an initiate, and when I came up for air, the harsh air of Coruscant, I cared little that the trilogy had already run to five parts, and craved more.

Well, that's almost five decades ago now and that writer is probably no more. I have half a mind to activate the terminal next to my engrossed Padawan to find out if the venerable Temple Library stocks any of these forgotten masterpieces of madness and direct my wandering gaze back to where Obi-Wan is sitting.

He is moving.

Rocking back and forth in his chair ever so slightly. I can see the muscles in his back balancing each other out, gentle interplay, in time with his breaths. Loud breaths. This one is not meditating ... the measured undulations of his right shoulder betray him to the knowing eye. My  Padawan, fully dressed, in the middle of the Temple Library and in full view of his Master, is pleasuring himself.

For a moment, I don't know whether to be jealous or grateful, whether to intercede and discipline him or whether to enjoy the sight of him bathed in the failing orange sunlight and the bright yellow glare from the screen, radiating tenuously controlled rapture. I decide to be both pleased and jealous. Jealous of what he is reading.

I cannot see his hand from here, I can only infer from the subtle shifts in his outline, the gentle movements of his muscles and the quickening breaths that he must be achingly hard and close to coming, and the sound of his harsh gasps of pleasure undeniably fill me with thick red heat ...

There! His hand, the other one, darts down into the bag he's brought, picks out something white ... a towel? So that's where that one went. I had been doubting myself this morning, dimly remembering that there was some special shame attached to being a Jedi Master who does not know where his towel is ... a strangled scream from the depths of Obi-Wan's soul tells me all there is to know, and I feel the wave of his lust rippling over me without even consciously trying to tap into him. He is just radiant, the room is full of him, and I want to be full of him too, Sithdammit.

It takes little more than two long strides to sneak up to him. Gently, I put my hands on his shoulders and make as if to stroke that fine red-gold fur at the nape of his neck with my thumbs while catching a casual glance at the half-read text on the screen --

-- he starts so violently that the trackball flies halfway across the desk and the screen is a blur of letters, scrolling up all the way to the beginning, so that by the time I have finished damping his frantic squeak down with a warm wet kiss, all there is to read is:

"When I emerge from the maze of movable bookcases and shelves into the yellowish half-light of the Padawans' reading area, the first thought that strikes me is how red his hair looks in this light ...."

--- The End ---