Dangerous.

No one ever assumes him to be – all posh and exquisite and suave. They say he’d rather not fight. That’s true. He prefers being subtly persuasive instead. They think it’s because he isn’t strong enough. They think wrong. And that’s what makes him so lethal.

A master manipulator, he barely ever draws his lightsaber – his words cut sharply and with surgical precision in its place, accomplishing what even the use of the Force cannot. But if there ever is a need for aggressive negotiations, his Jedi cloak slides off his shoulders with dramatic and elegant carelessness, revealing the devastating warrior hidden underneath.

No one ever expects him to be. No one ever sees it coming until it’s too late. And that is their fatal mistake.

The Order calls him the Negotiator, and sometimes Anakin thinks that it must be some kind of sick, cruel Jedi joke, like calling a huge weapon of mass destruction Little Boy. He is the proverbial carrot and stick, both in one. Only the stick is more of a scourge of gods if you asked the receiving end of his wrath. And if you asked Anakin Skywalker, well, he wouldn’t tell you that, of course, but every time they go on a mission, he prays to the Force for their opponent to be exceptionally stubborn and almost trembles with excitement in hope that he might witness a show of his Master’s deadly grace.

It is an extremely rare occurrence, of course: Obi-Wan Kenobi is barely ever forced to fight – he prefers a more civilized approach. Not that he ever even needs to fight for that matter. Why would he? His faithful apprentice is always there – a dark, mournful shadow looming behind his left shoulder – always walking with him, a step behind; always ready to fight and kill to protect his Master. His devoted guardian, his loyal servant – Anakin Skywalker is the most dangerous thing about Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.

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Majestic.

Words don’t come to Anakin as easily as they do to his Master, but this one… This one springs to mind every time – readily – at the sight of his Master.

The way he carries himself – his shoulders broad and square, his head held high and proud – it isn’t something he has ever consciously practiced. It is just his natural state of being effortlessly impressive and dignified but somehow deliciously delicate at the same time. It seems like everything about him just exudes dominance: he doesn’t just walk – he swaggers, confident and graceful, holding his body upright and swinging his hips; his look is sharp and commanding; his gestures are imperious; his posture is authoritative in the way that makes Senators and kings bow and hunch to appear smaller. They do it unwittingly, of course, they can’t see what Anakin sees: Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi strolls, blazing in glory and splendor, awash in the radiant current of the Force, its tendrils swirling and fluttering around him like war banners of a triumphant army.

Behold, his very presence calls, the Emperor in all his regal magnificence!

And Anakin can’t tear his gaze away. His eyes follow his Master’s every move, every step, every gesture with greedy, rapt attention.

His Master’s breath fills Anakin’s lungs.

His Master’s Light fills Anakin’s soul.

No matter how strong with the Force and powerful they say he is, Anakin has always been weak and helpless under his Master’s gaze, trembling at the sound of his own name spoken by his Master in that soft, gracious tone he reserves solely for him.

One word – and his Master could make Anakin do anything. That control is both terrifying and intoxicating, and somehow, Anakin feels unable to resist.

His nights are full of whispers – fervent whispers in his ear, making him come apart, pushing him over the edge with just his Master’s voice alone. Telling him the filthiest things in that rich, silky tone of his.

“Look at you, dear one.” His Master’s gentle cadence washes hotly against the shell of his ear. “So hard and wet for me. So deliciously desperate. You look like one of those sluts who come to the Temple every day, begging to be fucked full until they carry Jedi babies.”

Anakin mewls pathetically, clenching his fists into his sheets, throwing his head back in abandon, closing his eyes tighter, tighter because he knows that if he opens them…his Master won’t be there. Won’t be leaning over him, covering his body with his own. Won’t be whispering against his neck. Won’t be real.

“I know what my voice does to you, Ani…”

That voice…That voice is always enough. In his dreams, Master never even touches him – there is simply no need. He just talks him into an orgasm, his words vibrating a hairbreadth away from Anakin’s skin as he whispers them fervently against his throat, murmurs them against his chest, breathes them into his ears…

It is hell.

It is heaven.

And Anakin comes, choking on his sobs, swallowing his tears, calling after the figure disappearing in the dark. Every night.

“Master…”

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Sometimes Anakin wishes that he didn’t feel compelled to follow his Master around like a lovesick boy. And it’s not that he doesn’t want to – he is a lovesick boy, after all – it’s just that he is afraid his Master’s infinite patience with him may come to an end soon.

He was too clingy to begin with, but now he is only getting worse. His separation anxiety grows stronger with every passing day, and with it, his undivided attention to his Master goes completely overboard. It isn’t just annoying – it’s downright smothering, Anakin knows. He knows, even though his Master never mentions it, never even shows it in any way. Anakin knows, but he still cannot stop. Because it seems to him that if he doesn’t chase the elusive star of his Master’s halo, it will just float away – further and further into the vastness of cold, empty space – until it disappears out of sight completely. And then there will be nothing but Darkness for Anakin. Darkness all around him. And that is why, no matter how many times Anakin swears to himself that he will stop, he ultimately finds himself chasing after his Master over and over again. He can never stop.

He doesn’t remember exactly when it started, but he assumes it began back when he was still a nine-year-old who had just been brought to the Temple. Back then, he couldn’t imagine doing anything other than following his perfect, magnificent Master around like the most obedient of puppies, just needing to be with him, to watch his every move, to catch his every word.

Follow me, his Master told him.

And he did. He has been ever since, never once having asked: Where are you taking me?

It was a long time ago. But now Anakin is no better. He still feels like that stupid little boy with a crush, clutching at the folds of his Master’s Jedi cloak and tripping after him while Master rolls his eyes and tries to ignore his Padawan’s unwanted attention. The only difference is – now Anakin is six feet tall and towering behind his Master’s back like an angel of death, all clothed in dark and throwing menacing glares from under his cowl at everyone who dares to come close to his Master. But just as soon as Master turns around to face him, Anakin’s formidable posture somehow droops: as if on cue, his shoulders sag and his head lowers in a reverent bow. It is a mostly subconscious behavior – the way Anakin’s body simply reflects on how he feels about his Master. In Anakin’s eyes, he is a larger than life celestial warrior with the heavenly host walking behind him, so of course, Anakin thinks that their positions should be reversed – his Master should always be high above him, and he himself should be the one looking up at him. That’s why Anakin hates how tall he has grown (obviously, by some unfortunate mistake). He is uncomfortable in his own skin – he wants to appear smaller, to be plain and inconspicuous. It is the very reason why Anakin wears his somber, almost funereal garb – so as to be just a dark, dramatic backdrop highlighting his Master’s bright and radiant form. And he will always be satisfied to just stand there, in the Dark, playing the guardian of the Light. An ominous black cloud behind his Master’s shoulder. Forever eclipsed by his magnificent stellar shadow.

No, Anakin isn’t inherently humble, or obedient, or docile – far from it. In fact, he is as sassy and defiant as they come, his chin always held up high and an insolent retort ready on his lips for every occasion someone tries to pull rank on him. Yet, somehow, that rebel inside him is completely tame and meek when it comes to submitting to his Master. He is the only one who can do this to Anakin, who can get him – so incredibly stubborn and powerful – like this. Because he actually deserves the authority he possesses over Anakin’s body and soul.

It was almost scary how easy that transition was.

“The Council have granted me permission to train you. You will be a Jedi, I promise.”

Just two sentences – and Anakin slipped into the role of his Master’s dutiful apprentice, without even noticing. He learned to comply without question, letting his Master lead their way, taking orders from him and executing his will with overly fervent zeal.

And now he is so eager to obey – all bright, starry eyes and awestruck adoration – as if he believes that his endless devotion could one day buy him the one thing he so badly desires – his Master’s affection.

This is what years and years of the passive-aggressive, painful acceptance of his position have come to: he understands that he can never openly acknowledge his feelings, but he can turn that selfish desire into absolute, blind devotion. He can exchange his forbidden, twisted, devastating love for duty and service. He can give his Master his complete and full attention – be his protector – if he can’t be anything else.

He would not hesitate to kill and die for Obi-Wan Kenobi. It simply is his default setting, even though he realizes that the Jedi doesn’t actually need his protection and only allows Anakin to follow him around to humor him.

Still, Anakin is absolutely resolute in his conviction: he can’t let any harm come to his Master.

And so what if he is a bit aggressive when it comes to protecting the only person he cares about? So what if he is ready to kill the entire Galaxy without thinking twice just to keep his Master safe? So what?

And yes, maybe at some point his insane protectiveness does turn into fervent, jealous possessiveness, but how dare they try to touch his precious Master all the while he himself – his faithful, devoted Padawan – is not allowed to touch the way he wants so badly?

He is so jealous he feels like he is on fire. His blood is boiling, ready for a fight. Always ready for a fight…

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When they fight together, it seems as though they gravitate to each other, guided by some invisible pull, until their backs press to one another and the two complementary halves form a single invincible warrior.

They fight as one – identical and in absolute coordination, knowing and feeling each other completely after years and years of practice.

They breathe as one – their ragged exhales seem to be coming out of one shared pair of lungs in perfect sync.

They are one. A full set. A single whole, complete in itself. They are inseparable, terrifying and devastating in their unity.

But when they fight against each other…

Suddenly it’s like they are both made of porcelain or crystal – delicate and fragile – and they take every precaution not to accidentally shatter each other.

They dance around one another, reluctant to land any blows that could put the opponent in a potentially dangerous position. At least, that's what it must look like, Anakin thinks.

It is painfully obvious that his Master always pulls his punches with him as though he thinks his Padawan is still a little boy who needs to be coddled. His stance is defensive more often than not, and even when he is forced to attack, he does it half-heartedly and, for the lack of a better word, gently. As if he is worried that his Padawan might just break. And it’s not exactly far from the truth.

The truth is, Anakin is just as apprehensive about being the aggressor. All his lunges are half-assed at best. His style is a chaotic mess. His attacks are haphazard, hasty and rash. His reaction is sluggish, and in the time it takes Anakin to respond, his Master could kill him ten times over. But he doesn’t, of course. Because he is hell-bent on going easy on his clumsy Padawan.

And, naturally, it annoys Anakin to no end, but he still does nothing to improve the situation. It’s not that he doesn’t want to – he just can’t. The very thought of raising his blade against his Master makes Anakin’s hands shake and leaves him dizzy and sick to his stomach.

What if he accidentally hurts him somehow? What if he causes him pain? No, Anakin doesn’t think he would be able to take it.

And so, they keep dancing around like that: his Master – carefully controlled but still as graceful as always, his blade an extension of his hand, twirling and spinning in it with effortless elegance, and Anakin – torn by his inner conflict, his moves constrained and awkward when he dodges or parries, the humming lightsaber in his hand shaking violently, as if sensing her owner’s hesitation to strike.

They must look utterly ridiculous like that, Anakin suddenly realizes one day during one of such practices and almost laughs, shaking his head.

He finally decides to advance in a whirl of blows, his saber hacking and sliding as he presses on, making his Master retreat towards the pile of crates in the corner of the Training Hall.

It is a mistake, of course. But, inspired by his unexpected progress, Anakin doesn’t recognize it until it is too late.

He comes to a screeching halt and stares up at his Master who is now standing on top of a few crates. The tip of his low-powered lightsaber is hot against Anakin’s exposed throat.

“It’s over, Anakin. I have the high ground,” his Master proclaims, looking at his apprentice softly, with a fond, indulgent smile, and seemingly not at all surprised or disappointed by his failure.

“Give up now,” he warns, recognizing the expression Anakin usually wears when he decides to ignore the odds that aren’t in his favor.

“Don’t try it,” he cautions again, shaking his head. But, of course, Anakin tries it.

He jumps up and forward, propelled by the push of the Force, and leaps over his Master’s head to land on the very top of the pile.

Now it is him who has the high ground.

He points his lightsaber down, at his Master’s chest.

“I win, Master!” he exclaims proudly, with some childish joy, panting heavily, his eyes raking over his Master’s face, looking for desired recognition.

His Master bows his head slightly in acknowledgement and lowers his own blade.

Just like that.

Anakin gasps in shock when the rush of the victory passes and it finally dawns on him: his maneuver was reckless and stupid, brought on by his sheer stubbornness. His Master could have killed him – easily – but he didn’t strike. He let him win.

“And how does it feel, Ani? Are you enjoying your victory?” his Master asks, his voice velvety and thick like honey, as he takes a step up and presses his chest against the tip of Anakin’s saber, looking up, directly into his wide, shocked eyes. “Does it feel the way you wanted, my dear? Do you like it?”

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The extinguished lightsaber falls out of Anakin’s hand with a loud clank.

He feels shell-shocked, paralyzed.

He stands there, helpless, on the verge of tears, looking at his Master with huge, pleading eyes.

He doesn’t know what came over him a few minutes ago. He never wanted that victory.

He hates it. He hates it!

All he wanted was his Master’s attention. He craves it more than anything. And he acted out merely in hope of getting that attention focused solely on him.

He hoped to see his Master lose control, even if just for a moment, and maybe… maybe punish him for acting like a spoiled child and endangering his life so recklessly, even though he knew he couldn’t possibly win, being at a disadvantage in his lower position on the ground.

But even after Anakin’s utterly outrageous, inexcusable behavior, his Master’s control didn’t slip. He preferred to surrender. The Light gave in to the Darkness. And it shocked Anakin to the core.

It was so wrong. Unacceptable. Sinful. Blasphemous.

And Anakin despised and abhorred every second of it. He didn’t like to win. Not like that. Not over his Master.

He loathes his abominable victory. He is disgusted with himself so deeply that his stomach heaves, and Anakin feels like he is either going to be sick or pass out altogether.

“I hate it!” Anakin chokes out, tasting salt on his lips.

The world swims before his eyes…

“Obi-Wan!”

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“Obi-Wan!”

Anakin whirls around in a flash, to where his Master’s figure has stilled by the exit of the Training Hall. His eyes blaze with rage: no one at the Temple dares to call his Master by his first name anymore. No one. It is Master Kenobi for them.

“It’s been ages, old friend!”

Anakin is too far – still leaning against one of the crates on the opposite end of the Training Hall and waiting out the wave of nausea – to reach his Master’s side in time and stop that man, that ugly Kiffar savage, from folding his Master in his arms in a casual, overly familiar manner.

And Master smiles at him with fondness, seemingly forgetting all about Anakin being there, and allowing the man’s arm slip from his shoulder to his waistline – the gesture’s ease too habitual to be a coincidence.

Anakin does not like that. He cannot allow this man to put his dirty paws all over his Master.

He has to die, Anakin’s mind immediately supplies the solution with simple, cold determination.

The Force flares around him and rushes forward, across the room, in a furious, vehement torrent, sweeping the stranger off his feet and throwing him backward into the nearest wall. He falls to the ground in an untidy heap, wheezing and clutching at his throat, his body jerking and convulsing in its death agony.

Master is mine! Mine!

Anakin’s soul is shouting in the Force while his hand is clenching in the air in front of him with a strangling grip. Tighter. Tighter.

He crosses the room in a furious whirlwind of dark robes and stands, looming over the poor bastard on the ground, his lightsaber igniting in his hand with an outraged hiss.

One stroke and…

“Stop that. Now.” The command rings out cold and clear in the chaos of the dying man’s choked rattle.

Anakin freezes in place, the sure, dominant tone of his Master’s voice sending a shiver through his whole body, binding his will and making his head bow in instant obedience.

“Put away your saber at once.” His arms folded and his eyebrow raised in a silent challenge, his Master is waiting for Anakin to turn off his weapon.

“Passion is not the Jedi way,” he scolds sharply.

But passion is the only way Anakin knows.

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Quinlan Vos, the notorious Jedi Master, droops limply to the ground, his chest heaving with labored gasps, as he watches with perplexed and intrigued amazement how Anakin Skywalker’s lightsaber, already raised for the final blow, slowly lowers, and how the boy steps back, powering it down.

“Yes, Master,” he speaks softly, almost a whisper, his eyes downcast and avoiding looking directly at his displeased teacher, although he must feel his gaze, hot and angry, resting on him because his body immediately falls into a repentant pose.

“Good boy, Ani,” Obi-Wan murmurs, stepping closer to his apprentice and sliding his hand up the nape of his neck to grab a fistful of his hair grown out too long for a Padawan. His fingers tangle in it and yank the boy’s head back a little.

Skywalker’s impossibly dark eyes flutter shut as his lips part around a soft gasp.

He trembles all over, as if electrocuted, when his Jedi Master’s elegant but stern voice berates him, “But you are still too impulsive, my young apprentice. What am I supposed to do with such an insolent Padawan who picks fights with Jedi Masters? Perhaps, I should just tie your hands behind your back, hm?”

The brat doesn’t even whine – he outright moans, helplessly and desperately, as he throws his head back completely, convulsing in his Master’s grip on his unruly curls.

“Yes, Mmah-ster...”

Obi-Wan observes him for a moment with hungry attention, his expression unreadable, before he closes his eyes and turns away, as if in disappointment, releasing his grip on his apprentice’s hair.

“Go to your room.”

“M-master?” The boy stares at him in horror, still shaky and unsteady on his feet.

Obi-Wan turns to him sharply, his eyes stormy and furious, but his voice is even when he repeats slowly, dangerously:

“I said go to your room.”

His eyes huge with awe and terror, his sassy Padawan backs away – slowly, carefully – before he dashes to the nearest exit.

Quinlan Vos chuckles from where he is still lying on the floor.

“I gotta give it to you, Kenobi – the boy is whipped.”

“Oh, please.” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes with a dismissive wave of his hand and leans over to help his old friend up.

“No, I mean it,” Vos insists, rising to his feet with a groan of pain. “Follows you around like a dark shadow, scowling and glaring and glowering. I’ve been trying to catch you alone for three days, you know. Didn’t mean to…” the Jedi pauses, looking for words, “didn’t want to trigger him.”

Obi-Wan presses his hand to his forehead in a tired, irritated gesture.

“He isn’t always like that, he–”

“Let me guess,” Vos interrupts with an amused laugh, “only when other people try talking to you? I see you’ve trained your puppy to be your guard dog.”

Obi-Wan swats his chest, mock-offended.

“That is an outrageous assumption!”

“Is it?” Vos whispers, suddenly stepping into Obi-Wan’s personal space and catching him off-guard with his unexpected proximity. “Then what is he gonna do to me if he finds out I stood this close to his precious Master?”

Obi-Wan recoils instantly, taking a few steps back in haste.

“Well, he...” His voice falters as Obi-Wan doesn’t really want to muse too closely on what Anakin could do.

“He must never see you again,” he warns his old friend in an urgent, fervent tone. “He must never find you, you understand?”

Quinlan Vos chuckles again with satisfaction of being proven right and nods, acknowledging the warning.

“I just… I wanted to see you. One last time before going undercover again.” He licks his lips slowly, suggestively, and takes a step closer to Obi-Wan again. But this time Obi-Wan is ready for the sudden invasion of his personal space and shrinks back, raising his palm in a forbidding gesture, preventing Quinlan from coming any closer.

The Jedi smirks to himself, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, his palms raised pointedly as he backs away.

“Quin…” Obi-Wan tries, but he doesn’t let him finish.

“Goodbye, Obi-Wan.” The Jedi turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway for a moment, his back unnaturally straight but his head bowed, as he speaks, without turning around:

“You do know he is frustrated beyond measure, right? He’s dangerous, Obi-Wan.”

“I know.” A little fond smile touches Obi-Wan’s lips. “That’s how I want him.”

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Their common area is predictably trashed.

Just as predictably, Anakin is lying in the middle of the havoc he has caused. Passed out. Drunk within an inch of his life, an empty bottle of Obi-Wan’s favorite liquor in his hand.

His presence in the Force is blurred – glazed over and indistinct.

Right, Obi-Wan sighs, standing in the doorway, hands on his hips, as he assesses the damage.

“Stupid boy.” He shakes his head and crosses the room in two strides to reach his unconscious Padawan’s side and kneel beside him. “Always have to be dramatic, don’t you.”

Obi-Wan lifts the boy’s head, cradling the back of his skull.

“Mmh,” Anakin mumbles something deliriously in response, his head tilting back into Obi-Wan’s hand, revealing the column of his throat.

Obi-Wan can see the pulse beating under his skin.

He is vulnerable like that, his unstable and murderous Padawan. He is a threat, and it would be utterly stupid of Obi-Wan not to acknowledge that. And Obi-Wan could snap his neck right now and protect the Galaxy from his Dark fire. He could strangle him while he is weak and defenseless like that. He could…gather him in his arms and carry him – slowly, carefully – into his room.

“Mmst,” Anakin lets out a happy sigh when his nose ends up pressed into Obi-Wan’s neck as he picks up his limp body.

“Shh, honey,” Obi-Wan coos, pressing his lips against Anakin’s temple, and starts moving towards his Padawan’s bedroom, carefully avoiding the debris on the floor.

“You are okay. I got you. You just need some sleep now, and–” The words get stuck in Obi-Wan’s throat when he feels Anakin’s wet, open mouth press hotly to his bare neck.

“No, Ani,” he whispers, trying to get away from the touch, but he can’t really go anywhere without dropping the boy.

“Mhaa,” Anakin protests, seeking the lost contact. His whine burns Obi-Wan’s skin. His hand finds purchase in Obi-Wan’s tunic, clutching at it with a death grip.

“Mine! Mine!” Anakin’s lips whisper with feverish urgency into Obi-Wan’s neck.

“You are very drunk, dear one,” Obi-Wan admonishes softly as he bends forward to finally put the boy down onto his bed among the rumpled sheets. “There you go, Ani. Now sleep.”

But Ani doesn’t want to sleep: his bleary eyes open just slightly under their heavy lids and his arms wind around Obi-Wan’s neck, not letting him straighten his back and pulling him down onto the bed with him.

“D’n leave me,” he mewls, throwing his head back in his delirious abandon, but not letting go of Obi-Wan’s neck.

Obi-Wan shakes his head with mild amusement and tries to open the ring of Anakin’s arms, but the boy is clinging to him with an unyielding grip, so the only thing Obi-Wan really achieves by his maneuver is losing his footing and collapsing into Anakin’s strong embrace.

The boy groans victoriously under him, immediately wrapping his legs around Obi-Wan’s waist to keep him there.

“Ani, please let go,” Obi-Wan begs in a strangled voice, trying to free himself from the trap of his Padawan’s limbs.

“No, never,” Anakin promises with a moan, pressing himself flush against Obi-Wan’s strained body.

“Let go, Anakin,” Obi-Wan urges, more sternly now that the absurd reality of the situation has dawned on him fully. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

“Yes! Hurt me!” the boy slurs, readily grasping at the outrageous idea. “Hurt me, Master!”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widen as he gasps in shock. His mind screeches and gets stuck on the dilemma of what is more unspeakable: the idea of intentionally hurting his Padawan or the realization that he would let him. Gladly. He would beg for it even. In fact, he is doing just that right now. Trembling and writhing. Pinned under him, his head thrown back to expose his neck to the hot hell of Obi-Wan’s ragged breaths…

“Master!” The needy whine tears Obi-Wan out of the whirlwind of his thoughts. He thanks the Force that the boy in his arms is too drunk to remember this in the morning. Too drunk to remember how rough and raspy his Master’s voice sounds when he breathes out against his lips:

“Sleep, Ani.”

Light tendrils of the Force wrap around Anakin’s body like a warm blanket, making him immediately slump against the sheets, limp and relaxed and – thankfully, finally! – asleep.

Obi-Wan presses his forehead against his Padawan’s and closes his eyes for a second with a long shaky exhale: he is almost ready to cry with relief.

He falls onto the bed next to the boy and carefully pulls his head to rest against his chest while he runs his hand up and down the nape of his neck in an all too familiar soothing manner – the way he has done it a thousand times before: his Force Signature is cradling Anakin’s, enveloping it gently and protectively, humming a sweet, entrancing lullaby.

“Sleep, Ani. You are safe with me. You are my good boy. I will always be with you, dear one. Sleep. Sleep…”

And Anakin sleeps.