Ambiance: Carmina Burana. "Nunc per ludem dorsum nudum fero tui sceleris -- Now through the game, I bring my bare back for your villainy."
Archive: Anywhere. Email forwarding is OK.
Archive Date: October 3, 2000
Author's Webpage: http://come.to/prillalar Disclaimer: SW belongs to George Lucas, not me. I do not profit in any way by this story.
Feedback: Yes, any and all comments welcome.
Pairing: Obi-Wan/Maul (Luke/Wedge)
Rating: NC17 for M/M sexual situations and disturbing imagery.
Series: The Thousand Nights and One Knight.
Summary: In which Obi-Wan Kenobi knows the power of the Dark Side.
Warnings: This story contains some (consensual) sexual activities that may disturb you, if you're not a sick fuck like me.

Luke was suffocating. He felt hands on him, clawing at him. He tried to shake them off, but he was paralysed. He screamed but his voice stuck in his throat, choking him. The hands were still pawing him. His heart was about to explode through his chest. He couldn't breathe.

Then he woke, and was released.

"Luke, are you all right?"

The hands belonged to Wedge. They weren't clawing, but stroking him gently. Luke covered one of the hands with his own and sat up in bed. "Turn the lights on, okay?"

"Another dream?" Wedge switched on the lamp and Luke saw his concerned face and rumpled hair.

A dream. It was gone, though, except for the dread balled in the pit of his stomach. "Yes, but..." He shuddered and it all flooded into his mind, every image, every sound. "It was awful."

Wedge rolled over and put his arms around Luke. "You're shaking. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know if I can." Were there words for the things he saw?

"Come on." Wedge pulled Luke's head against his shoulder and began to pet him, running his fingers through the blond hair. "It will help you feel better."

Luke closed his eyes and drew in the smell of Wedge's bed-warm skin. His heart was slowing, his gut relaxing. "I'll try. There was Obi-Wan -- a young man. In the city, not far from here..."

Obi-Wan was hunting. Sunlight faded into the orange glare of the lamps as he prowled the alleys of Coruscant. An open door spilled light and music into the street. He paused, reaching out, then passed it by.

He was burning, following his instincts. He had no lovers, no playmates at the temple now. Lira's master had taken her away, Jorel -- he'd fallen in love, he said, and Tamanya...he tried not think about Tamanya.

Eyes on a street corner looked at him with invitation, but he knew it wasn't what he wanted. He moved on. More open doors, more people with come-hither in their gaze. He kept going, senses heightened with every stride.

The need had been on him now for days. The afternoon's work done, Obi-Wan had even looked at Qui-Gon, his offer unmistakable in eyes and posture. "Good night, Obi-Wan," his master said, turning away. Leaving Obi-Wan alone.

With his words, Qui-Gon had always urged Obi-Wan to control, to mastery over himself. But with his actions, he had taught his apprentice that some feelings must be followed, no matter what the cost. So tonight Obi-Wan was hunting. With little success, though. Keen arousal flicked him, urged him forward. Along the alley's wall, he saw two men and thought that they might do. Better than nothing. Prowling towards them, he passed a doorway. Stopped. Turned. Someone stepped out of the shadows.

This was the one. The man was startling, face covered with some sort of makeup -- no, tattooing. Jagged swathes of red and black. Burning yellow eyes, rimmed in red, centres sunk in black. His hood fell back and Obi-Wan saw the horns ringing his skull. Implacable stare. Obi-Wan's chest tightened, his skin strained to contain him. This man was hunting too and he was the one.

Gloved hands reached out, pulling Obi-Wan into the doorway. One found the back of his neck, drew him forward. Obi-Wan leaned into the kiss, but it never came. Instead, he felt hot breath on his cheek, his neck, felt the man's nose graze his skin. Smelling him, Obi-Wan realised. Singeing him, maybe. Leaving his own marks on Obi-Wan's face, streaks of carmine and pitch.

Pressing cheek to cheek, Obi-Wan moved along the man's jaw line, up to his ear, untangling the skein of scents that rose from his skin. Perspiration, dust from the street, rust, and something dark and sweet. Kilana root? Burnt, caramelised. Desire was a blue flame just beneath Obi-Wan's skin, incandescent in the night. His hand slid over the man's neck, thumb hard on the jawbone. He put out his tongue to taste.

At once, he was thrust away, still held hard, but at arm's length. "No," the man said and his voice was as smooth and dangerous as Obi-Wan could have hoped. "Not with one as innocent as you."

Innocent? Obi-Wan almost laughed out loud. There was hardly an apprentice within three years of his age whom he hadn't had. There wasn't a game he hadn't tried, a pleasure he hadn't pursued. He was Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Mad Lover of Coruscant and he was no innocent. "Try me," he said, and smiled.

"No." The man took Obi-Wan's hand, raised it, breathed his way across the palm. "The only life here is your own." He dropped it, stepping back into the shadows. "Come back when things have changed."

The words sunk through Obi-Wan, like coolant in his blood. He turned and walked away and when he turned the corner, he sprinted the rest of the way home.

His blood was cold, and his body, and his bones, but not his ardour. Under a gush of hot water, he stood, naked and shivering, stroking himself. But it was the voice that touched him, "no" brushing over his eardrums, "no, not with you" crawling inside his skull. The release was awful.

His night was fitful, but he slept and if he dreamed, he didn't remember it in the morning. Routine woke him, fed him, clothed him, carried him through the day. Candlelight and meditation carried him through the night.

A few days later, Lira returned to tell him stories and drink his wine and work her magic -- which was considerable -- in his bed. So there was no time to focus beyond the here and now. The months went by and Obi-Wan was happy. Once or twice, he woke alone and the sheets were soaked with sweat. But Coruscant was sweltering through the hottest summer in two hundred years, so it wasn't really surprising.

One night, the heat rose like steam from Coruscant and Qui-Gon took Obi-Wan into the city on an errand. The streets smelled of people, far too many people, and garbage and burning stone. Obi-Wan's tunic stuck to his back and made him itch. They were passing a tavern when a man tumbled out the door and staggered into Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan tried to set the reeking burden back on his feet, but the stranger swore and grappled him. The tussle was short and Obi-Wan soon freed himself and turned to go. Then in the corner of his eye, he saw the flash and spun in time to meet the knife, to reach out and seize the wrist, to turn it back, away. To hold hard as the body crashed into him again, to feel the hot gush of blood down his hand. To be glad it wasn't his own.

The man fell to the ground. Obi-Wan didn't try to catch him. The man vomited in the gutter. Qui-Gon was there, kneeling down and calling for help. The man died anyhow.

At the temple, Qui-Gon told Obi-Wan to meditate, then left him. Obi-Wan lit the candles and knelt to compose himself. He took one deep breath, then two. Then he swept the candles onto the floor, spattering himself with wax.

He paced the room, heart pounding, arms shaking. His skin crawled and he tore off his tunic. He tasted metal in his mouth. In his blood, adrenaline sang, keening madly until his ears rang. He paced and paced and burned but was not consumed, was not diminished.

Then he was out of the temple, pelting through the streets of Coruscant, and the night drew him in.

Sweat oozed out at the roots of his hair, crusting his scalp, sweat ran down his bare back, dripped down his face into his eyes. Obi-Wan sucked in the humid air, running harder through the darkness. One shoe came loose and flew off as he rounded a corner. He kicked the other free and kept on, feeling the dark heat of the city coming up to fill him through the soles of his feet. It hurt.

He stopped. He was there. An arm reached out and pulled him in. Obi-Wan knew now that this man was the hunter, not he. The hunter who did not stalk his prey, but lured it in and made it long to be taken. Obi-Wan was ready.

"The blood is on you now," the man said. For a moment they studied each other, both stripped to the waist, both gleaming under the streetlights that flooded the small room. The hunter's tattoos covered all his skin, black sigils slashing through the bright red ground. Obi-Wan reached out to trace them and learn their power. The hunter caught his wrists and pushed him up against the wall, holding his hands above his head.

Obi-Wan arched his back as the hunter leaned in, expecting his skin to scorch where their chests pressed together. As before, he felt the breath on his skin, along his neck, up behind his ear. He was shaking with fear and frustration and arousal. Hip bones ground into his own. A hand reached down and gripped his thigh. But he didn't move.

The hunter released him and stepped back. Obi-Wan stared into the yellow eyes, fascinated. When the hunter held out his hand, Obi-Wan put out his own, and clasped it. The skin was soft, black like leather. The hunter raised Obi-Wan's hand, smelled the palm, smiled a little. Bowing his head, he slashed it open on a horn.

Obi-Wan gasped. The gash was deep. The hunter cut his own hand. His blood was dark, almost black, hard to see against the skin. Not human. Obi-Wan pressed his palm against the hunter's and their blood ran down together. As it trickled down his wrist, Obi-Wan felt the power inside of him, the strength of killing instead of dying.

Pulling back, the hunter rubbed his hand across his mouth, streaking his lips and chin. He began to touch Obi-Wan's face, daubing it with blood, first his own, then Obi-Wan's. Obi-Wan couldn't see himself, but he knew: the hunter was painting Obi-Wan to look like him, angled runes in soot and rust across his face.

Putting out his tongue, Obi-Wan tasted the colour on his lips. The hunter's blood was oddly sweet, like dark, dark rum, sweet and strong. The hands rubbed over his chest and Obi-Wan leaned into the touch. There was so much blood. How much could he lose and still live?

He could see the patterns now, on his chest, the red and the black mingling there, the finger marks of the hunter. Obi-Wan's head was spinning with desire, his knees were buckling, his gut was twisting. He growled in the back of his throat and grappled the hunter, pulling him close, smearing the blood across his chest.

Obi-Wan moved his hands over the hunter, over the muscles of his back, up his sides, down to cup his buttocks. The skin was so soft, it seemed incongruous. The hunter's hands were on him too, scraping him with their nails, rubbing with their palms. Obi-Wan heard a tearing sound and found his loose pants falling away. He kicked them off and was naked. Soon they both were.

Still standing, they raked each other's bodies, pressed close, moved away, bore down again. Obi-Wan sucked and bit the hunter at the base of his neck, tasted the dark spice of his skin. He couldn't get enough of it. The hunter's hands slid over his buttocks, fingers probed him and he sucked harder.

Then the hunter took Obi-Wan's cock, hard and aching, took his own and fisted them together. Obi-Wan shuddered and gripped the hunter's hips, steadying them both. He was overwhelmed, felt like his centre of gravity was shifting. But there was more. Something changing in the air, almost a touch on his skin. It intensified the sensations he felt, it increased his desire. But it bothered him that he couldn't discern it.

Suddenly, he understood. The hunter was sending out tendrils of Force, wrapping them both with the energy. It shocked Obi-Wan and for a moment, he froze. The hunter looked at him, searching Obi-Wan with his yellow stare. It was irresistible. Obi-Wan added his own power to twine with the hunter's. It wrapped around them, joined them together more intimately than Obi-Wan had thought possible.

He wanted more. More of the hunter. So he pressed his face to the hunter's neck and opened his mouth and bit hard and harder until he broke the skin. He drank the blood, black and sweet, warm like ginger. Obi-Wan drank down the hunter and the hunter's hand was on his cock and the Force streams whirled around them until Obi-Wan thought the air would catch fire.

Everything came together in one moment, infinitely long. Obi-Wan climaxed and so did the hunter, clinging together in such a paroxysm that it seemed the sky was splitting open.

He found himself lying on the floor, with blood on his lips. The hunter was gone. Through the open door, he saw the building across the street burning, struck by lightning. The flames hissed as it began to rain.

Obi-Wan stood, touched his face. Then he walked naked into the street. The rain poured down and washed the blood away.

"That's all I remember." Luke turned and looked up at Wedge.

"That's enough." Wedge tugged gently at Luke's hair. "It was...intense. Are you feeling better?"

"Mmm hmm." Luke wrapped his arm around Wedge's chest. "How about you?"

"I'm fine." He kissed Luke's temple, where the skin met soft hair. "So, should I be calling you the Mad Lover of Coruscant now?"

Luke punched his friend in the arm. "I always thought that was you, Antilles."

"I guess I can hold my own." Wedge kissed Luke again, behind his ear and down his neck. "Care to try me?"

"I should have known I couldn't wake you in the middle of the night without being forced to attend to your insatiable needs."

"Just one thing, Skywalker." Wedge paused, mouth nearly touching Luke's.

"What's that?"

"No biting."

So who has your vote for the Mad Lover of Coruscant? Nominations and feedback to prillalar@yahoo.com

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