The Sacrifice (QuiObiAni)
Have some “fallen for no identifiable reason” Sith!Qui/Obi/Sith!Ani.
This bubbled up the other day and was supposed to be like 100-300 words, originally. But no.
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Obi-Wan stands on the steps of the Jedi Temple, in the early hours of the morning. He looks toward the horizon, the faint glow of dawn not far off, and closes his eyes.
It’s been a year since Qui-Gon Jinn, his former master and sometime mission partner, fell to the dark side and took Anakin Skywalker, his eighteen year old padawan, with him. First it had been rumor, then conjecture and finally, fact, backed up by recorded images of Qui-Gon and Anakin meeting with a militia group on one of the worlds in which the Jedi were trying to mediate a peaceful end to a civil war. Obi-Wan remembers the cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, the lightheadedness that took him to his knees when the news reached him.
It’s been 9 months since the gifts began showing up at the Temple, addressed to Obi-Wan; some, in elegant handwriting that he knew as well as his own, some in a messier, scrawling script that he had become familiar with as he helped a small boy, then a teenager with his homework.
The gifts were small things at first, things that would not look out of place in a Jedi’s quarters: a smooth river stone here, the feather of an exotic morning song bird there.
Then came larger gifts: scrolls and books so old that Obi-Wan turned them over to the Jedi Archives for safe keeping. Foods delivered in self-cooling packages: Obi-Wan’s favorite Alderaanian chocolates, sweet meats from Nakadia, dried fruits from Dantooine, spiced wine from Corellia. The Council, perturbed but, as Jedi do, trying not to show it, had the food tested and, when found harmless, donated.
Then came the strange gifts. Art prints of a pale, long limbed, red haired man in supine positions and in various states of undress, passion written across his features, the impression of lovers given in the fall of a shadow over his naked chest, the curve of a hand around a thigh. He tucked the prints away in an old book of poetry that had once been Qui-Gon’s.
Then there were handwritten notes—in two sets of handwriting—of only one, two or three lines, that made Obi-Wan’s stomach clench and his face burn. With shame or arousal, he isn’t even sure.
I crave the taste of you.
He was lucky enough to stumble across the first one on the steps of the south entrance, before the Knight on duty found it.
We'd be having much more fun if you were here between us.
He read it and burned it in one of the fire pits in the meditation gardens.
I came to the thought of your mouth on me.
He made sure to revisit the south entrance at the same time each morning to scoop up and destroy any new notes, though he couldn’t destroy the words that imprinted themselves indelibly on his mind.
I came to the thought of you under me: shaking, bound, supine, helpless.
But then one arrived just before he returned from a mission.
We saw you today. We were close enough to hear you whisper in the Senator's ear, that the deal had been compromised by his aide. Close enough to touch. Did you feel us?
And that note saw him summoned to the Council chambers for the most somber meeting he remembered having since the beginning of the Separatist Crisis, since Qui-Gon’s near death on Naboo.
“Your master, Qui-Gon no longer is. Your friend, young Skywalker no longer is. To temptation, they seek to lead you. See you fall, we would not. Take care, you must.” Yoda’s ears were held back, nearly flat to his skull.
“With the rising separatist activity, we can’t afford to have you off roster now, but we’re removing you from solo missions, Knight Kenobi.” Mace Windu leaned forward in his chair. “And we remind you to take the utmost caution when leaving the Temple.”
It’s been six months since the Council removed Obi-Wan from missions entirely, after a fairly routine diplomatic mission to Carida ended with a Separatist attack and Obi-Wan in a hanger, alone, with Qui-Gon and Anakin.
They’d come at him from either side and for a moment, Obi-Wan had forgotten to breathe as he stared at his master’s face, his features like a Parmethan lion and looking no older than he had the last time Obi-Wan had seen him. But his eyes were different. Harder, hungrier, still blue as glacier water but Obi-Wan thought he caught a flash of gold in them as Qui-Gon moved in and out of the shadows.
“My Obi-Wan,” he said, voice flowing like sunlit water over river stones. Obi-Wan had to resist the urge to close his eyes and fall into that water. “I’ve missed you. We’ve been waiting for you to come to us.”
Qui-Gon herded him backward and it was only a shiver through the Force that had Obi-Wan leaping safely to a window ledge as he felt Anakin’s breath on the back of his neck, heard Anakin’s voice hot in his ear, “I always wanted to know if you tasted as good as you smelled.”
The last thing he saw as he slipped outside was Anakin’s full mouth pulled into a smirk and Qui-Gon’s shining eyes.
Obi-Wan was certain every master’s spine was pulled taught as he spoke of the encounter in the Council chambers. They didn’t deliberate long before telling Obi-Wan he was on teaching assignment for the foreseeable future.
It’s been two months since he was confined to the Temple entirely, after Anakin had been spotted in the Senate District, mere blocks from where Obi-Wan was having lunch with the young senator from Naboo.
It’s been a day since the package arrived for him. The clothing, Obi-Wan had hidden away before he presented the letter that had accompanied it to the Council. Written in Qui-Gon’s hand, the letter offered a trade agreement. Continued information on the Confederacy Military, its leaders, its financial backers, its plans. In exchange for Obi-Wan.
The deadline for agreement is today.
The Council has been in session all night. Do they risk losing another powerful member of their ranks in exchange for possibly heading off a galactic war?
Obi-Wan thinks the answer is fairly clear cut. How many lives will be lost with the eruption of war? How many can he save by turning himself over? And were he to fall…what does that even mean? What did it really mean for Qui-Gon? For Anakin? Apart from some potentially questionable alliances and an apparent reduction of inhibitions where Obi-Wan was concerned.
He left a note in his room, detailing what he was about to do and how the information would be transferred to the Temple, before changing into the outfit that had accompanied this last letter, a silk, emerald green tunic with a deep v-neckline that stretched to the middle of Obi-Wan’s sternum. The color set off his hair and made his pale skin shine. Slim cut black trousers and soft slippers completed the look. He’d looked askance at the depil cream that had been wrapped up in the shirt, but finally slathered it along his jaw and waited the required time before wiping it away. For a moment, he didn’t recognize himself. And perhaps that was point.
Now, he stands shivering in the cool mist of morning, at the edge of the southern entrance, wondering about his next steps.
He opens his eyes and lets the Force wash over him. It tugs him away from the steps, down the empty street.
A few blocks from the Jedi Temple, he sees a speeder. Standing next to it is Qui-Gon. His master is dressed in a midnight blue tunic, black leggings and shiny black boots, so similar to his Jedi issued ones. When he sees Obi-Wan, he straightens, but waits for Obi-Wan to come to him.
When Obi-Wan’s within reach, Qui-Gon wraps his arms around him, one hand tangling in the length of his hair, gently cupping the back of his head as his master brings their faces close, his mouth hovering above Obi-Wan’s, breath trembling along Obi-Wan’s lips.
“Not yet, he hasn’t,” Anakin says. Obi-Wan feels the warmth of Anakin’s body against his back.
“Anakin.” There’s a mix of amusement and censure in Qui-Gon’s voice. Obi-Wan shifts, minutely, and Qui-Gon’s grip on him tightens.
Obi-Wan licks his lips. “I’ve set up a secure channel for you to transfer information to the Temple. At least one transmission per week. I want to see the information first and have communication with the Temple after it’s delivered and confirmed. You’ll have my cooperation, so long as the information is worth something.”
“Of course,” Qui-Gon says and Obi-Wan gets the feeling that his master is laughing at him. “I’ll send the first transmission once we get to our ship.”
“And I’ll show you to our quarters,” Anakin says in Obi-Wan’s ear, one hand slipping beneath Obi-Wan’s tunic, tracing along the clenching muscles of his stomach. “Master will join us when he’s done.”
Qui-Gon’s eyes flick from Obi-Wan to Anakin and back again, the left side of his mouth drawing up into a winsome smile.
Obi-Wan feels Anakin grin as he presses his lips to Obi-Wan’s ear. “Master’s been eagerly waiting to see us together, Obi-Wan. I think…. I know he wants to watch me fuck you almost as much as he wants to fuck you himself.”
Obi-Wan can’t stop the heavy warmth that settles in his belly or the shudder that runs through his body. They hold him tighter for a moment. Qui-Gon strokes his thumb over Obi-Wan’s lower lip, down his chin; Anakin presses his lips to Obi-Wan’s cheek, his tongue flicking out warm and wet. Then they spin him and guide him into the back of the speeder. Qui-Gon follows him in and Anakin slips into the driver’s seat and directs the vehicle up and into the early morning traffic.
