#hekateinhell

“Kriff,” Anakin pants, shaking sweaty hair from his eyes and trying not to move too quickly as his knees strain, shaking body speared halfway down the thick dildo suctioned to the durasteel frame of his bed. He moans weakly, shoulders hunching as his loosened rim clenches on the rigid silicone, but he inches determinedly down with tiny rolls of his hips, eyelids fluttering wetly as his body makes space to be fucked. Finally, he settles with fake balls resting against his ass, the high-pitched, warbling moan he hears himself let out making his face flush with delicious shame.

For the thousandth time, Anakin thanks whatever gods there are that Knights are allowed their own private quarters, because when he does this, when he lets go and gives in to his fantasies, there is no way he can keep his feelings and sounds from bleeding into the air and into the Force.

This one though; this is one he knows he can’t let go past the locked door of his room, can’t let even a hint of the thoughts that accompany the devastating pleasure out past his mental shields. This fantasy has a name and a face, is the reason he’d travelled into the lower levels in search of things that he’d known existed but has never had a need for – and even though he wants to push every single moment of yearning and fever-hot need past his overwhelmed mind into the ether so that he can take even one breath, he can’t bear to think of the consequences.

The slanted shutters of his room stripe Coruscant’s neon night lights across his damp thighs, turns the shadowed skin gleaming from where he’s streaked with lube and pre-come, sweat beading at the junction of knee and thigh. He runs a trembling hand along the taut skin and up to his heavy balls, grits his teeth on a whimper at the soft sensation on sensitive nerves. The wanton spread of his hips has settled into an ache deep in his bones, and the visceral satisfaction of staying open and in place so that the silicone cock buried inside his shivering body rests, thick and blunt as deep as it can go, races down his spine with each slight shift back.

After a breath, Anakin begins to rock minutely, a roll of narrow hips that shifts the cock along his prostate in a slow grind, choking back a sob as his head tips and his cock dribbles. Thin strings bead at the tip and slide down to join the mess on the bed beneath him, and he drags his fingers through the pool of lube and pre-come, circles them slowly around where the base of the dildo meets his puffy hole. The stretch is just this side of too much; and he licks his lips at the hungry thrill that goes through him at being split apart and filled to bursting like never before.

It's been a while since he was planet side long enough to indulge in any sort of self-care, let alone the elaborate set up he hopes will satisfy this particular craving (it won’t, he knows it won’t) – and it shows in the way he shakes and spreads his legs further; hands sliding up his tensing belly and chest to circle and pinch at his wet nipples as he grinds on the dildo, letting himself pant and moan into the cool air. Anakin is impulsive and impatient, undoubtedly; but in this he is known to be slow and thorough, taking the time to tear himself apart until he’s nothing but a writhing mess, desperate to come.

Tonight though, the thought of edging himself is anathema when his mind continues to replay the dream that had sent him into a frenzy of shocked lust for the past two rotations on board the Twilight. He’d flashed through hyperspace towards the Temple and home, body a livewire as he tried to hold himself back from just pushing a hand into his pants in the fresher and making himself come, knowing how much better this could be if he just waited a little longer, made it as close to reality as he could because he knows he'll never have anything else –

The images, crystal clear and so wrought with sensation that he’d be inclined to think they were a vision if not for what they were, had come seemingly out of nowhere. He has never wanted anything quite like this before, even if he’s wanted the subject for longer than he dares to admit – but when he remembers the words in that accent breathed across his heaving pulse, the greedy edge to them, he knows why his subconscious has latched on and turned him inside out.  

Anakin bites his lip and watches as his angry looking cock disappears into the loose circle of his own fingers, jerking forward faster and faster with each increasingly brutal thrust back as he loses himself to the feeling of having something long and hard rubbing against all the places his fingers can never quite reach. He’s never used a toy, content with what he could manage quickly and covertly behind thin walls and even thinner shields, but now that he knows what it feels like, the heft and weight, he doesn’t think he’ll ever go back.

His knees are stiff and aching just as much as his hips, muscles beginning to tremble from how long he’s had to sit and wait for his body to adjust to the solid thing bulging against his walls. But everything is wet and smooth now, his heartbeat ratcheting higher as he starts to fall into that overwhelming place where everything feels good, the burn at his clenching rim and the bright spear of the cock against his cervix –

“F-force, oh my - !”

He gasps sharply, the thought stabbing through him and sending him careening that much closer to the edge because this is it, the fantasy that has sent shockwaves through him for days now, what he’s been craving since he woke up from the flickering remnants of dreams where thickly muscled thighs under his ass tipped him up as hands pressed his legs to his chest and smoothed across his belly, slanting him as the scalding, pulsing sensation of come shooting into his waiting body washed over him –

Anakin doesn’t have a womb, but that isn’t the point when he can hear a familiar, ruinous voice telling him that he’s beautiful like this, fucked out and being bred, claimed for all the world to see, to know who he belongs to, who he’s always belonged to –

“Obi – Obi-Wan,” he stutters, unable to stop himself from finally speaking the name aloud, pushing his knees even wider and bracing his hands in front of himself so that he can plunge back more easily onto the hot length about to impregnate him, whole body tensing with the stimulation and vision blurring with the intensity of his approaching orgasm as it builds and builds – he’d wanted to hold on but it’s too much, too new and so wrong but so right, kriff – he wants –

He fumbles a hand to the syringe attached to the tube running into the dildo, has just enough presence of mind to remember the instructions the Twi’leki shop assistant had helpfully shared as he’d blushed and tripped over himself in his haste to leave. His spine curves impossibly as the cock scrapes against his fertile womb once, twice – and at the last second as his eyes begin to roll back, he presses down so that hot, sticky, lube squirts into his clenching hole and hits his insides thickly, the idea, the knowledge of being bred magnified by the way it catches there, unable to dribble out properly because of the sheer size of the cock plugging him up.

Anakin cries out and comes so hard he almost brains himself on the bed as his arms give out, snapping his hips back in a filthy roll to fuck himself through the twitching of his muscles, not stopping until he feels like he's going to pass out from how quickly he’s sobbing through his stunned pleasure. The dildo’s cockhead continues to scrape against the deepest parts of him, unable to shift much from how much he tightens around it, and Anakin presses a hand to his belly as if he can feel the weight of it through the skin, trace the passage of come into his body.

He moans feebly, eyelashes wet as he throbs with desperate want and his body continues to shudder through the lingering twists of pleasure. Soon though, he’s able to rise unsteadily, hissing slightly at the rigid length still buried in his gut as he shakes and whines. It makes his sated body hum even if his mind tells him it’s not real, won’t ever be – and he gets a fumbling finger under the suction cup to pop it up, letting himself fall onto his back as soon as its free and grabbing for a pillow to slide under his hips. Anakin whimpers urgently as he grabs his stiff legs and folds them to his chest, eyelids fluttering at the thought of what he must look like, ass still full of cock and hips tilted so that the come can stay where it’s needed until it’s done its job.

His walls continue to pulse around the dildo as he runs flickering fingers over the backs of his thighs and up to his perineum, pressing lightly to feel the thickness through the thin skin and choking at the overstimulation. Once the feeling of shuddering out of his own skin passes, he lets his legs fall back down as his shivers start to fade, beginning to slowly pull the length free and hissing slightly when it catches on his still-sensitive prostate.  He tries to lock his muscles to keep the lube from spilling free, but huffs when he realises he has to let himself relax to get the massive thing out. As soon as it’s slipped past his rim though, he’s quick to push his fingers back in, tilting his head on a whine at the idea of being full of Obi-Wan's seed.

Anakin sighs softly, head tipped back and mouth working on a dry swallow as he passes his metal fingers over his slack balls and flaccid cock up to his throat, rubs them over his shifting jugular as he tightens rhythmically around his own fingers. He can’t stop himself from imagining Obi-Wan’s compact body next to his own and his lips trailing over his stretched rim, tasting where he’s taken him apart and turned him into something new.

Anakin’s lip trembles as he tries to hold in his heaving breaths, bliss still managing to cut through the heavy loneliness that seems to permanently sit beneath his breastbone. As the immediacy of the fantasy begins to fade, he can admit to himself that the promise of belonging to him again, of having something of Obi-Wan’s that ties them together more tightly than their faded master-padawan relationship, is what made the dream of being pregnant with their child so perfect. Anakin can’t remember a time he hasn’t loved Obi-Wan Kenobi in some capacity, but the war and their roles in it have made it even more clear that what he wants, impossibly, is to be by his side for as long as he’s allowed. He also knows though, with helpless disappointment, that his duty will always have to come first, the way it always has for his master.  

Lust confusion shame guilt lust lust lust –

With a lurch, Anakin suddenly notices the secondary presence that’s pressing against the decayed remains of his bond with Obi-Wan, jolting when his focus flies to his shields to find they’re down, have been the whole time he’d been busy flooding reckless longing and wrecked pleasure into the Force in the aftermath of imagining Obi-Wan fucking him stupid and breeding him. Anakin inhales hastily, coughing out a mortified wheeze as he realises what he’s done, allowed to happen and –

It’s too late, he can feel Obi-Wan’s force signature moving towards him with a swiftness that must mean he’s been in the Temple this whole time – he could have sworn he was meant to be on some Council-sanctioned diplomatic mission on a core world that had no business needing Jedi protection but were requesting it anyway –

Anakin yanks his fingers out of himself and flushes at the way lube pours from his fucked-out hole and down his thighs onto the floor, too concerned with finding where he’d tossed his pants to be facetious over the mess as he feels Obi-Wan stop right outside his quarters. He barely has time to pull them carelessly up his legs before Obi-Wan keys in the code and enters, unsteady footfalls closing in on his room as he stumbles towards the door.

He wonders for a split second why Obi-Wan is here, confronting him when he would normally be cloaking himself behind beskar steel walls and retreating to the other side of the galaxy as soon as possible in an effort to avoid Anakin and the chaos of his love and loyalty, jealousy and envy. But he’s not given a chance to think on it more as his former master opens his door, takes in the sight of his come-streaked chest and dazed eyes, the lube on the floor and the slippery dildo caught amongst his sheets.

“A-Anakin,” he says, voice cracking around the syllables with a thousand things that Anakin can literally feel reaching for him in the Force, threatening to swallow him whole. He gasps, wrung-out body tipping forward and soul reaching back on instinct. Obi-Wan steps forward, arms rising to catch him like they always do, like he hasn’t even considered anything else.

“Master,” he chokes out, and Obi-Wan swallows, hands finding his hips and burning a tattoo straight onto his heart. Anakin’s throat closes around too much fear and the smallest spark of hope, blinking salt from his eyes that Obi-Wan catches with a shaky thumb before it can trail down his flushed cheek.  

Obi-Wan stares at the tear caught on his calloused skin, then takes a strangled breath. His mouth opens, and Anakin’s whole world tilts.

...

“Louis doing something simply for the joy of doing it,” Lestat said, looking away from Armand and back around the streets. Doubtless people were watching him from somewhere, but he couldn’t tell exactly where from at this moment. “Will wonders never cease?”

“Joy is not spontaneous to everyone,” Armand replied evenly. “Even for you, sometimes you have to reach for it.”

“Are you reaching for it?” Lestat asked.

“I hope so,” Armand said, his expression changing from the impassive to something a little softer, something that suited those little cherubic cheeks a lot better.

This was closer to how he’d looked when he’d arrived, fledgling in tow, well over a week ago now. Something burning in veins far more potent than blood, anticipation for a reunion of their little family, perhaps? 

It had only been a few nights ago that this melancholy wandering had set in. Lestat had wracked his mind to find the cause of it. 

There were the complications of their relationship, but they’d embraced as lovers long apart do and he’d felt the warmth of him in his heart. No, Armand had been as happy to see him as he’d been to have him there.

Louis had been quiet, but Louis was often quiet and the court was very social. Armand of all people knew that Louis liked his little corners to disappear in so he didn’t think being ignored was the issue.

There was Marius and the inevitable difficulties of their relationship, but he’d greeted him with more warmth than usual.

There was also Daniel, but he’d arrived with Daniel in good spirits and whatever they had been working out together, it seemed to be a source of something beautiful and not something that would cause him to wander about like a lost child.

Who else was there that could cause such a response in him?

It was embarrassing that it took more than another few nights before Lestat realised where Armand tended to end up. It was a route he walked himself on occasion, when he was longing for someone else, someone that they’d shared a very long time ago without ever truly sharing him. Eleni had once told him that Armand had taken Nicolas’s death almost as well as Lestat had – so was this why he wandered by the places he had to know clung to his spirit?

Not literally, Nicolas had never shown up as others had in ghostly form, but there was an imprint of him at the places they wandered past - his fathers shop with the open window, the inn, the square, even Lestat’s rooms.

Had Lestat simply not realised that Armand had found some way to grieve another old loss, not unlike Lestat himself had been trying to do?

Eventually, he found Armand in one of the larger rooms that had been turned into something of a crafting studio by the more creative of among them. Armand had sat himself in the corner, letting two dead former lovers talk wildly about plans for some project with such an intense passion that suddenly, in his mind, something clicked into place. 

When he had left Nicolas with Armand, it had been because he thought that Armand needed a guide to the then modern world. Daniel had been the same thing two centuries later. Both were sarcastic, brash, passionate about their respective arts and both had fallen into an obsessive madness before their very eyes.

“Before my eyes.” Armand’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Be thankful you didn’t see the worst of it.”

Lestat met his eye and couldn’t help but grimace. “I still wish I had,” he said.It didn’t matter that all logic said he was making things worse by staying, that their relationship had been destroyed the moment he was pulled through that window and it had been cruel to keep hanging on after that.  “If only for more time. He had always wanted more time to become whoever he was supposed to be.”

“Instead, the infinity of time was the problem.” Armand wasn’t looking at him at all. Maybe it was too hard to do so. “Did you really think it would end any other way?”

Lestat could think of no rebuttal to that. Maybe before he’d drank so deeply, seen such desolation and misery, then yes, he believed they could get past it. It may have taken a while, but there would be time. It was all Nicolas had ever wanted, the time to study, the time to become the musician he wanted to be and maybe it was Lestat’s own foolishness to think that may have made him happy.

“Giving someone what they think want can cause more problems than it solves,” Armand said. 

It was only then that Lestat understood, that the reason he wasn’t looking at Lestat wasn’t because he was overcome with some old emotion but rather that he was looking at another child that should never have to pass: his own.

Daniel had been exactly what Lestat had hoped Nicolas would be for Armand, his link to the world, a teacher of how to be a person from the most self possessed person he knew and yet, shortly after coming into the blood, their relationship had been ripped to shreds too. Daniel had slipped into obsession while Armand had slipped into despair.

But they had recovered. Armand had founded Trinity Gate with Louis, he had kept the children safe and he had begun to connect with old lovers and lovers that should have been. From his understanding, Daniel had slowly found his way back to the world under Marius’ care and his patience, something Armand confessed he didn’t know he could give another of his blood.  They had found new life in themselves before finding each other again.

If Nicolas had the time, if they had all known what they know now, could he have recovered from his fevered mind?

Could he have found himself in the rubble and as stubbornly as he had cursed him out, as creatively as he had written his music, as persistently as he had practiced his craft, begun to see the world as something that could be beautiful? No, not beautiful, beautiful wouldn’t have been enough, but as something interesting, something thought provoking, something that could have kept his mind from slipping down into the wailing waves of his own internal agonies? 

“I did what I thought would help.” Armand’s voice was tight now. “Clearly Marius knows something I don’t.”

“And if you’re not careful, he’ll give you an extensive yet largely uninformative lecture on what it is.” Lestat reached for his hands, cupping them in his own. They were fever hot and it warmed something within him to do it. “I am not casting blame on you. I know that you did everything you could, and you always do. I’m not blind to what you did for Louis. I’m not blind to what you do for me either. I’m just a little sad to think of what we could have had.”

“He would have liked that,” Armand said, eyes flickering to Lestat’s own. There was the briefest hint of an affectionate smile, but if it was for how Nicolas seemed to make despair and darkness into something to be loved or for Lestat then or Lestat now, who knows? “Any idiot can make you smile, but this deep sense of grief, a sweet misery, I think he would have liked to be remembered as having caused that.”

“You’re right,” Lestat agreed. Any idiot could be happy, he’d often said, in fact idiots were often happier because they didn’t know any differently. This mix of grief, nostalgia, pain and pleasure tied into a memory, it would be how his Nicki would want to be remembered. “And things didn’t turn out so badly in the end, did they?”

“He was right about one thing,” Armand said, rolling his eyes. “You are irrepressibly optimistic.”

“It’s part of my charm,” Lestat said, bringing Armand’s hands to his lips and kissing them, taking care to brush a fang over the skin just to feel the reaction. “And I am terribly charming, aren’t I?”

“You’re definitely terrible.”