#glwt

Settled a bit, the jedi opens his eyes to try again. Carefully.

He is still in Maul's private chambers, but that doesn't change the fact that beneath him is a futon mattress, like he'd seen on daybeds in fancy guest rooms. It was thicker than his own pallet in the temple, and zipped up in a soft, removable cover. This is what he lays on.

Obi-Wan has the stray thought that it really needed proper sheets. He sets a hand on his face, and sighs at himself. No, wrong, what it needed was to go back where it came from, just like him.

Cautious, slowly, the jedi master sits up and looks around. He is nonplussed to see his clothes are gone, and confused but interested to notice a literal bottle of water set beside the bed. What he does not see is a sith lord turned deep sea creature.

The memory of claws comes to him, deadly sharpness trailing down his back in the gentle touch of a prospective lover. Obi-Wan droops where he sits. Unfair. This is all utterly unfair.

Maul had become something out of a fantasy. The idea of him, deep under the sea, pining for years to take his revenge, only to change his mind at the sight of his mortal enemy, and instead kidnap them away to be lovers? It was a the plot of a one credit bodice ripper novella, and the force hasn't even seen fit to give him a bodice to wear while, apparently, living it.

Blast it, where are his clothes?

Obi-Wan stares down at his calloused fingers, each digit a little paler than usual. They're dry and cracked from repeated dunks in salt water. The texture of his own fingertips distracts him.

‘I might be disassociating a bit,’ the stewjoni thinks to himself while rubbing his thumbs and forefingers together. ‘I’ve stumbled into somewhere between nightmares and dreams, and my options to deal with it are so few.’

He sighs softly, being open and forgiving with himself.

‘I want to have sex with the man that killed Qui-Gon,’ he mulls wryly, ‘if I make it out of here alive, I think that merits a trip to the mind healers for a guided deep dive of my psyche.’

Obi-Wan chuckles a little, but stops quickly when even that makes a flash headache shred at his brain.

‘Indeed, a good long look. In the meantime… I…’

The jedi draws his knees up, feeling them tremble with fatigue, until he can set his head against the sailcloth over his thighs. He leans there, bonelessly.

Obi-Wan feels cold, but is he actually? Is it emotional cold, fever cold, brisk air on naked skin, or true chill?

Blast it, but he wants Maul to come back. And that is a terrible sign.

Obi-Wan shivers a bit where he sloughs against his legs, just accepting the fact that he wants to be held and petted and treasured and doted on by his own personal monster. It is, most likely, a completely normal reaction to being ill, to want those things. Yes, it really is, isn't it? He exhales heavily, and just lets the truth of it be.

Obi-Wan refuses to cross that line, to consummate this foolhardy preoccupation with his own jailor, but, these feelings are still valid and reasonable.

He feels better for acknowledging it.

Now onto matters of the physical.

Gingerly, the sick jedi eases himself over to get a hold on the water bottle, drawing back and cracking it open. He sniffs it, questioning the water's potability. It's stale, but clean tasting. To his scratchy throat it's a little painful, and a little soothing. He dearly wishes it was tea with honey and lemon.

The jedi drinks half, then recaps the bottle and sets it aside in favor of lowering himself back down onto the futon. If asked, Obi-Wan would swear that he merely closes his eyes for but a moment…

He blinks muzzily, and comes around to fingers carding through his hair. Claw tips slide back over his scalp, so gently it almost tickles.

“Kenobi,” the sith calls, soft and singsong, “Keno… bi~.”

“Mmnnnh,” he replies, feeling the length of Maul's tail pressed against him under the covers. He is dry, sleek scales like rounded glass. One of his pelvic fins rests on Obi-Wan's hip, lightly holding on to him, while the silky upper caudal fins that trail the sith are draped over his legs under the sail cloth and tarp. They're soft. Smooth. When Maul shifts they flutter against the skin of his ankles pleasantly.

Obi-Wan is, once again, wrapped up in the arms and fins of the very same ‘dragonfish king’ he was sent to kill. With an incredible amount of ‘fuck it’ energy, he noses forward under Maul's chin.

“I'm a bit sick,” he admits.

“Hnnn… your flushed cheeks and reddened eyes told me so already,” the other man says, still toying with his hair.

“I want tea,” he sighs, “with honey and lemon. My throat hurts.”

Maul makes this… incomprehensible noise. Not human, not zebrak. In the force he feels… pleased?

“Making wishes of me now?” the sith murmurs, “I suppose I could share one or two, seeing as I have three but do not need any of them.”

...what?

Obi-Wan pulls away to look at him with all the skepticism his dizzy self can muster. Maul smiles back, a cruel twist of lips framed by the most charming dimples imaginable.

He is stunned. This is Obi-Wan's excuse for why he doesn't move away when the sith captures his lips, biting oh so gently at him with his needle-like teeth, then licking his way across and inside.

Obi-Wan lets it happen, eyes drifting closed as he reciprocates slowly. Oh. Kissing makes his head feel better. Whatever chemistry that's about, it's working.

“That's it, jedi mine,” the sith croons to him, “taste me in return, and I will bring you tea.”

Well if it's for a good cause.

Tentatively, Obi-Wan licks at Maul's lips. They're thin but plush, utterly normal if wider than before his transformation. The other man hums, encouraging, the tip of that long pink tongue flicking playfully against his.

Obi-Wan chases it as the slick muscle recedes, finding the pointed tips of Maul's new teeth. He explores them with care, finding out which of his experiences with making out can and cannot apply.

He finds a good angle and pumps his tongue into that wet heat, slickness sliding against slickness. Obi-Wan's head twinges with the movement, but he's a bit too enthralled to care.

Maul makes, just, the sweetest little noise. Begging. Needful. Obi-Wan feels himself stiffening, his cock pressed to Maul's belly where skin fades to scale.

Oh dear. Now that is quite enough of that indulgence.

With one light kiss of the traditional sort, Obi-Wan pulls back and relaxes onto the mattress with a sigh. He watches yellow-green eyes blink open, pupils blown and slow to focus.

“Very good,” the sith tells him, trailing the backs of his fingers down Obi-Wan's face. “You will learn that I keep my promises, Kenobi.”

“If you bring me bread of some kind that hasn't been drowned in salt water, I'll do that again.”

Maul chuckles, sliding out from under the makeshift covers. “You see? Gifts are a good way to show favor.

The jedi would roll his eyes if he wasn't a hundred percent certain it would feel like an icepick in his brain to do so.

To be continued...

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