Someone in My Head, but It’s Not Me (Dark Side Remix)

~1000 words :: Star Wars :: Anakin/Obi-Wan, Anakin/Padmé :: 4/29/07
Some experiences shape you for life. (Note: This is a remix of Diena Taylor’s Hunger, written for Remix…Redux V.)

“That could be you, eh?”

It’s a whisper in his ear, a tickle of memory he can’t quite dredge up. Anakin watches the serving girl lean over to fill Obi-Wan’s glass, her breasts rubbing his arm. Her nipples are huge and he only stops staring when Obi-Wan smacks his thigh under the table. She brushes against Anakin’s back when she comes around to his side, sending a rush of heat to his groin and making him glad there’s a tablecloth covering his lap. He looks up at her face for the first time realizes she really is a girl, probably younger than he is.

She places her hand on his shoulder and it feels heavier than it should, rougher. The faces on the other side of the table blur until he’s seeing through them to a line of naked slaves being led towards Jabba’s palace.

“You don’t watch out, that could be you, eh?” The beating of Watto’s wings is loud behind him, his grip digging into Anakin’s shoulder. “Jabba, he don’t like the little boys, but I know others.”

Anakin blinks the memory away, smiles up at the girl and tells her he doesn’t need anything else, thanks. Obi-Wan frowns at him. “No daydreaming, Anakin,” he says under his breath.

“Yes, Master.”

In his head it’s different. In his fantasies, Obi-Wan is the one calling him master and the thrill he feels at hearing it is better than the Force.

He can remember a time when his fantasies were normal, when he daydreamed about kissing Padmé or Knight Telen. He can even remember the first time he looked at Obi-Wan as a man, rather than just his master. It was one of his favorite fantasies for months afterwards. He was practicing a new kata, so lost in the Force he didn’t even notice his erection until he came to a stop, and in his dreams, instead of looking amused and saying, “Adrenalin has that effect sometimes,” Obi-Wan would drop to his knees, tug Anakin’s pants down and wrap his lips around Anakin’s dick.

Now he jerks off to images of Obi-Wan in chains, on his knees still, but with his hands behind his back, thighs spread so Anakin can admire his impressive dick. Obi-Wan’s hair is cut short again, like when Anakin first met him, or sometimes it’s longer than it is now, and Anakin uses it to grab him and pull him forward, between Anakin’s legs where he belongs.

He makes sure Obi-Wan is his, marking him each night with bites and bruises, carving his initials in Obi-Wan’s skin, and it’s a shock sometimes to realize it hasn’t really happened. They’ll be sparring and he’ll falter, distracted by Obi-Wan’s unblemished skin. He’ll find himself having to blink away the phantom of that other Obi-Wan.

Some nights he fucks his fist as if it’s Obi-Wan’s ass clenched tight around his dick. He wonders if Obi-Wan’s ever been fucked before, if he’s screamed like this for someone else, and without fail the thought twists his stomach in knots. But it’s like a scab he can’t stop picking at and he always comes back to it, to him sliding down on Qui-Gon’s dick or Qui-Gon fucking him up against a wall as he begs to come. As he begs his master.

And then one time something snaps, and Anakin feels the Force running through him, brighter and hotter than he’s ever felt before. He can’t be responsible for what comes next. It’s Obi-Wan’s fault, and Qui-Gon’s, and Qui-Gon is dead anyway, long before Anakin ever dreamed of killing him. He feels alive, though, alive and so fragile, dwarfed by Anakin’s power. He screams forever, screams until no sound comes out, and Anakin just laughs.

He wakes up drenched in sweat, his dick so hard it hurts. He lies there in the dark, heart pounding, and tells himself it was just a dream. If he’d really drawn on the Force like that, he’d have Obi-Wan banging on his door. Sith, he’d have woken the whole Temple. The buzzing in his head, the way his skin burns with the echo of it, that’s just his imagination.

He meditates til dawn but it doesn’t stop the trembling.

Instead, something settles in his gut. Something scrabbles in the back of his head, eager as his dick in his hand, and he tightens his shields and keeps his mind carefully blank as he jerks off.

He never lets himself fantasize about Obi-Wan after that. He keeps his shields so tight it feels like he’s suffocating, but still he can feel it there, whatever it is. Waiting.

Padmé is a welcome relief. When he’s with her, the pressure in his head dissolves and it’s like he can breathe again.

She cries sometimes when he’s too rough, but he always says he’s sorry. He says it a lot, but he can’t help it. She says she loves him, but how can she prove it?

He holds her down and thrusts inside her – too soon, he thinks distantly; she’s still dry – and it’s so easy to see how she’d look with his initials burned right into the skin of her breast, right where his thumb’s pressing in. He makes an A with his thumbnail, thinks of a laser marking her for everyone to see.

It feels so good to let go. He doesn’t want to think about leaving, about the itching in the back of his head that always comes back when he’s with Obi-Wan. He doesn’t want to think about it at all. He just wants to feel.

“Ani, please,” she chokes out, her eyes wet.

“I love you,” he pants. He thinks of how she would look with a collar around her neck, how she would sound calling him master. He thinks of them both when he comes. His. “I love you so much.”