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Making eyes at this husk, around my heart
I see through you and we're sitting in the dark
So give me your filth, make it rough
Let me, let me, trash your love
“You know,” Obi-Wan says casually, though his blue eyes -still so blue, even with his years as a Sith Lord’s apprentice- are glittering with an intensity that borders on madness. “I would have let you touch me, if you’d only been brave enough.”
He gives another slow, tight jerk of Qui-Gon’s cock, and Qui-Gon strains to lift his hips on instinct, out of his mind with pleasure-pain as Obi-Wan forces him to the edge of release once again. He’s strapped tight, though, in this sophisticated interrogation web, which both exposes his nakedness and holds him completely still. Qui-Gon doesn’t know how long he’s been here, his mind foggy with agony, desperation, and a deep ache he can’t describe with words. To see Obi-Wan like this is an ugly pain like he’s never known, not even when he had fallen to the blade of Darth Maul.
“Padawan—“ Qui-Gon chokes out, desperate for some sign of the boy he trained, but the only response is a hard slap across the face that sets his teeth on edge.
“No.” Obi-Wan hisses, gripping Qui-Gon’s chin in a harsh hand. “I am //not// your Padawan. Not anymore. You //died.//“ He pushes the older Jedi’s face away just as cruelly as he’d grabbed it, and returns his attentions to Qui-Gon’s cock, giving it another series of strokes, enough to draw a sharp cry that Qui-Gon couldn’t stifle.
“I would have given you //anything//.” Obi-Wan says accusingly, running his thumb over the slit at the head. “I would have let you bed me, I would have let you touch me. I would have touched you.” He makes certain to drive the point home with a tight squeeze, which sends a full body shudder racing up Qui-Gon’s spine. He lets his head fall back, but Obi-Wan has removed his hand, leaving the former Master twitching and denied yet again.
“I swear to you,” Qui-Gon breathes heavily, trying to regain some control over his mind and tongue. “Obi-Wan, I swear I—“ The slap, when it comes again, makes his eyes water, but he turns his eyes back to the younger man, heartbreak vivid on his face.
“I loved you.” Qui-Gon finally rasps out, and Obi-Wan stills a moment, darkness clouding his eyes. “I never stopped. I love you still. Obi-Wan, please—“
“Enough.” Obi-Wan’s voice, clipped and proper, lilting with what remains of his Coruscanti accent. “You… discarded me. You chose a boy you barely knew, over me!” He presses close to Qui-Gon, breath against the other man’s cheek. “You threw me aside and then you //died// and left me alone.” He laughs, a rough humorless thing. “And I’m supposed to believe you loved me?” He pulls back, taking Qui-Gon in hand again, and jerks him in a sharp rhythm that has Qui-Gon shaking in his bondage.
“I never meant, I never meant to hurt you.” Qui-Gon can feel tears escaping down his cheeks as Obi-Wan strokes him with a deliberate ruthlessness. “I’m sorry, I am sorry, Obi-Wan, my Obi-Wan, please-“ He feels himself nearing release and takes as steadying a breath as he can, trying to push it away. It… it can’t be like this. It //can’t//, when all Qui-Gon had wanted for years was to show Obi-Wan what intimacy could be. They were bonded in a way he never had been with his other Padawans, and his heart -and body- yearned for the younger man with a ferocity he only barely controlled.
But Obi-Wan had been his student, his apprentice. Off-limits in every way that mattered.. He had promised himself, promised the Force, that if he was allowed to, he would talk to Obi-Wan after his Knighting. He would explain his feelings and hope that the boy didn’t turn him into The Counsel. He doesn’t want to think about the look on any of the Master’s faces if they discovered how deep his desire ran.
Naboo changed everything.
Qui-Gon remembers dying. He remembers the feeling of being in Obi-Wan’s embrace as his life ebbed away from him. Remembered begging him to train Anakin -a dying wish that he later learned had never been granted-, remembered brushing his fingers across Obi-Wan’s cheek. He remembers tears falling on his face as he lost consciousness.
He doesn’t remember much after that. There are some memories, surgeries and bacta tanks, and pain and pain and pain. Dooku, his old Master who had secreted his body out of Naboo, all the way to Serenno, ever watchful and shrewd. But the memories are stars in a long black night that only ended when Dooku had presented him to Obi-Wan. A gift, the count called him, for all of Obi-Wan’s service to the Dark Side.
Qui-Gon had not been able to hide his shock at seeing Obi-Wan -his Padawan, his partner, his //heart//- dressed in black, hair longer and falling in his eyes, staring at him with a horrible kind of stunned hatred in his eyes. It was only after a long terrible moment that he realized what was wrong:
Obi-Wan did not have his Padawan braid any longer.
There is pain at first, to think of Obi-Wan, left alone and adrift after Naboo, cutting it himself, severing his remaining connection to his deceased Master. Then anger, when he thinks that someone else might have taken that honor - an honor that by rights was his own. That was for //him//, a moment shared by Master and Padawan alike for centuries, when the Master would cut the Padawan’s braid, symbolically releasing them from their apprenticeships. Many Masters kept their Padawans’ braids for years, a small token of attachment that the Jedi Code permitted. Qui-Gon had already planned to join that tradition on the day Obi-Wan was Knighted - a day that now, he will never see.
Obi-Wan had begun torturing him that day, more clinical and routine punishments, relying on droids for the acts themselves as Obi-Wan watched, cold and detached in the corner. Over time, though, the torture became more personal. Obi-Wan had begun to touch him himself. Gently at first, almost kind, coaxing him to hardness, then steadily working him up to release before cruelly dropping him out of it.
Qui-Gon isn’t sure how many days have passed since that first one. It feels like forever and yet he’s sure it can’t be more than a week. It all has bled together in a blur of pain, need, love, and horror, all overlaid with Obi-Wan’s critique of his Mastery. What seems to offend him the most was not Qui-Gon’s need to train Anakin, but more the fact that Qui-Gon had never once seemed to notice Obi-Wan’s own devotion. But with that devotion turned sour, Qui-Gon now has to endure the horrible knowledge that he has failed Obi-Wan worse than any Master before him has failed.
The torture continues. Obi-Wan works him to the edge another four times, and refuses him release each time, leaving Qui-Gon trembling and half-mad. Obi-Wan laughs again, and it feels like a dagger in Qui-Gon’s chest.
“If I had known all it took to bring you off your pedestal was a hand around your cock,” Obi-Wan observes, drawing a long anguished cry from his former Master as he refuses his completion for a fifth time, “I would have made much better use of our time together.” He begins to bring Qui-Gon up again, and the older Jedi can’t hold still, quivering all over in his bonds.
“I’m going to make you come now.” Obi-Wan says, and Qui-Gon makes a wordless sound of protest. It has been //days//, and he needs release like he needs another breath, but this is all wrong. All wrong and yet, he can’t fight the wave of pleasure that starts to ripple through him.
“You will thank me for it.” Obi-Wan considers a moment, fist pumping around Qui-Gon’s hard length. “And you will use my name to thank me. I don’t want you to forget for a moment who is doing this to you. Who is //using// you like this.” Qui-Gon makes an almost silent noise of hopeless agreement, and Obi-Wan, for the first time, smiles.
“Go ahead then, //Master//. He says, with a wickedly timed twist of his wrist that leaves Qui-Gon unable to breathe. “Show me how well you can obey me.” Qui-Gon is helpless against the orders, even as the sarcastic use of his old title stings his soul. His climax takes over him, white-hot and far too intense, locking his muscles and arching his back. Right at the peak, Obi-Wan fists his free hand in Qui-Gon’s long hair and pulls.
“Say it,” he demands hotly, “Say it, or it all stops.”
“Obi-Wan—“ Qui-Gon grits out, and once it’s left his lips, the floodgates open, and he jerks in his bonds, lost in a litany of “Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan, please, please I’m sorry. Forgive me. Obi-Wan, forgive me!” Tears spill fresh and hot down his face, and he feels a second climax cresting on the heels of the first. It rips through him, clearing his brain of all thought, his body twitching and jumping long after his orgasm ends and Obi-Wan lets him go. He knows he’s crying. He knows he’s still speaking. Saying thank you. Saying Obi-Wan’s name. Saying thank you again.
Obi-Wan shakes himself, the sight of his former Master coming undone twice is enough to set his mind reeling. He steps back as Qui-Gon’s muscles loosen and his body hangs limp in the tight bonds around his wrists, hips, and ankles. He clears his throat, which is suddenly tight.
“There’s no way out of this, Qui-Gon.” Obi-Wan says, and there's a catch in his voice that’s almost not there at all, but Qui-Gon still noticed. Of course he did. They once knew each other by heart.. “Your Padawan is gone, and he isn’t coming back. No one is coming to save you.”
As the door closes, Obi-Wan tries to ignore the pang that goes through his chest when the only response is a broken sob.