Amazing Hair (pointless Ani/Obi smut, NC-17)
So ... this fic was prompted by a request from zacksucksatlife . What he actually said was, "can you write some rat-tail slash? I want it to be erotically fondled." Well, Zack, I'm tryin'. Here's your PWP.
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns the characters, thank God. He would never subject them to this. I am deeply ashamed.
AMAZING HAIR
You, my Padawan, have amazing hair.
I know I ought to tell you this, because mature and responsible people, secure in their own worth, are not afraid to give compliments to each other, especially when making love. But somehow it seems wrong to point out that one of the things I find so attractive about you is that long, skinny braid behind your right ear, the one that says you’re mine, you belong to me, you are my Padawan. I don’t dare say any of this, but I think you already know.
So tonight, eyes half-closed as you lick your way down my chest -- your mouth is almost as amazing as your hair, but it doesn’t mean the same thing -- I wind that little tail of gold around my finger and it feel its skin-warmed silk as though it were your glorious hard cock -- all right, I couldn’t wind that anywhere, it’s anatomically impossible -- but it feels as intimate as touching you there, wrapping my hand around you and watching you come.
This, I know, is ridiculous. Hair is technically dead; it can’t feel anything, so when I stroke the pad of my thumb over the little beads near the end, it doesn’t mean anything to you except that I like to feel your hair.
Maybe that’s enough.
You look up at me, grinning your sly know-it-all grin, and tug your hair gently free of my fingers to tickle my chest with the end, where the hairs fan out from their braid and make the perfect feather for teasing my overheated skin.
You tickle lower, and I think, what?
But there’s no breath left with which to ask you, because you’re doing something new and different and strange, and yet so perfect I almost can’t grasp it, like the mystery of the Force.
Still smiling, you wrap the length of your blade loosely around me and begin to slide the loop up and down, up and down ...
Anakin, what ... oh ... oh ...
I try to form words and can’t. I just stare at what you’re doing, the raw sensuality of your hair around me, sliding, and then you turn your head and take me in, just the tip, teasing, and slide again ... and I have meditation techniques and the Force and am a master of restraint, but when you look up and meet my eyes, I gasp and come hard into your mouth.
I get the feeling that you don’t mind. You wipe me clean with a careful swirl of your tongue -- how you do that, I’ll never know -- and unwind your braid.
Tomorrow I’ll look at you in the practice ring and remember where that braid has been and lose my focus.
A week from now I’ll see the beads slap against your shoulder in the Council chamber and I won’t be able to think of anything else.
From now on, every time I look at your braid, I’ll remember this moment.
And for the first time, I understand: That’s exactly what you wanted. For the braid that marked you as mine to mark me as yours.
You’ve got it.
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns the characters, thank God. He would never subject them to this. I am deeply ashamed.
AMAZING HAIR
You, my Padawan, have amazing hair.
I know I ought to tell you this, because mature and responsible people, secure in their own worth, are not afraid to give compliments to each other, especially when making love. But somehow it seems wrong to point out that one of the things I find so attractive about you is that long, skinny braid behind your right ear, the one that says you’re mine, you belong to me, you are my Padawan. I don’t dare say any of this, but I think you already know.
So tonight, eyes half-closed as you lick your way down my chest -- your mouth is almost as amazing as your hair, but it doesn’t mean the same thing -- I wind that little tail of gold around my finger and it feel its skin-warmed silk as though it were your glorious hard cock -- all right, I couldn’t wind that anywhere, it’s anatomically impossible -- but it feels as intimate as touching you there, wrapping my hand around you and watching you come.
This, I know, is ridiculous. Hair is technically dead; it can’t feel anything, so when I stroke the pad of my thumb over the little beads near the end, it doesn’t mean anything to you except that I like to feel your hair.
Maybe that’s enough.
You look up at me, grinning your sly know-it-all grin, and tug your hair gently free of my fingers to tickle my chest with the end, where the hairs fan out from their braid and make the perfect feather for teasing my overheated skin.
You tickle lower, and I think, what?
But there’s no breath left with which to ask you, because you’re doing something new and different and strange, and yet so perfect I almost can’t grasp it, like the mystery of the Force.
Still smiling, you wrap the length of your blade loosely around me and begin to slide the loop up and down, up and down ...
Anakin, what ... oh ... oh ...
I try to form words and can’t. I just stare at what you’re doing, the raw sensuality of your hair around me, sliding, and then you turn your head and take me in, just the tip, teasing, and slide again ... and I have meditation techniques and the Force and am a master of restraint, but when you look up and meet my eyes, I gasp and come hard into your mouth.
I get the feeling that you don’t mind. You wipe me clean with a careful swirl of your tongue -- how you do that, I’ll never know -- and unwind your braid.
Tomorrow I’ll look at you in the practice ring and remember where that braid has been and lose my focus.
A week from now I’ll see the beads slap against your shoulder in the Council chamber and I won’t be able to think of anything else.
From now on, every time I look at your braid, I’ll remember this moment.
And for the first time, I understand: That’s exactly what you wanted. For the braid that marked you as mine to mark me as yours.
You’ve got it.