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    Summary

    Anakin's padawan braid tumbled coyly over his shoulder, brushing against Obi-Wan's neck with every one of their heaving breaths. It was almost like the end of a sparring match from a lifetime ago, except for all the ways it wasn't; the hands digging ever-tightening bruises into his wrists, claustrophobic opulence at his back threatening to bury him in feather and silk, Anakin's — Vader's — eyes boring into him with black hole hunger, possessive and consumptive and starved.

    His body had reacted to the touch without his consent, even this scant contact enough to send his heartbeat pounding in his ears. His ears, and other places. Blood rushed south, paired with the stinging prickle of a flush working its way up his neck and along his jaw. His breath quickened in his throat for reasons other than exertion.

    Do you find me handsome, Master? ricocheted around inside his skull until he feared it might drive him mad.


    A Dialogue Embroidery Challenge wherein the opening four paragraphs and all subsequent dialogue was written by the inimitable intermundia. Make sure to check out the collection!

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