Archive: Master and Apprentice (and The Nesting Place)
Warnings: Gets a little rough, but not too bad
Disclaimer: Lucas owns 'em. I use 'em. Lots.
Summary: Qui-Gon reflects on some things he's noticed about his
apprentice.
Author's Notes: After receiving a loving but forceful shove
from some who've read this, I am posting this to the entire
list. <g> It's definitely different in tone than my
previous stories, so regular readers beware... and saraid, this
is as far as I can go... Feedback: Please! Good or bad, sock it
to me.
He leaps in the air, spinning like a dizzy butterfly, head over
heels, learning to become the maestro of his own abilities. I
can sense Obi-Wan's command of the Force, see the tiny beads of
sweat which appear on his upper lip. If I close my eyes I can
taste them, salty and forbidden against my tongue. This is a
training ritual he's repeated so often I have dreamed of it, so
familiar I could give these instructions in my sleep.
"Be one with the Force, Padawan," I call, knowing he heeds my
words, embracing them, wrenching them into the world of
concentration he inhabits at this moment. "Use it not as a
weapon, but as a tool. Let it flow though you." His turns and
spins become faster, his strikes more sure, and I am spellbound
by his youthful power. The simple joy and athletic beauty of
his actions spark proud desire in my heart.
I have been watching him execute these dangerous stunts for
many years. Something drives him to test the limits of what is
acceptable. Perhaps this is why he delights in flaunting his
feelings for all to observe. When we became lovers, I knew this
was to be expected. The sheer breathtaking honesty of our bond
has put so much into perspective...
As he finishes the exercise and deactivates his lightsaber, he
turns to face me. I meet his eyes steadily, well aware of what
I will see there - his blue-green gaze, so much like light
summer rain, pattering across my skin as he looks at me.
Infinite eyes, which can be so deceptively bland, so innocently
blank during delicate negotiations on far-away worlds, but
which suddenly blaze with a deep cobalt fire in the heat of
battle. Their depths contain so many secret wishes, such
glittering promises. My apprentice is dark and deep and filled
with lustful aching; I can sense his emotions as vividly as
though we were one person.
His eyes are his most deadly weapon. I cannot withstand their
assault.
"Well, Master?" Simple words, spoken with such assurance. He
knows I am proud of his skill, yet he expects to be taken to
task for his exuberance. His words emerge tinged with smug
amusement. His voice is an instrument of his profession, used
to manipulate or influence. Often, he uses those low tones to
calm or distract an opponent, bending their will to his. I know
what it is to have my pleasure directed by his words, to have
my passion deepened by the suggestive sounds which rise from
his throat, to hear my name spoken coarsely between gasps and
cries, to hear the implosions of want in his shadowed tones as
he comes with me, or for me.
"Less aggression, Padawan," I chide him. "You brandish the
Force like a torch thrust out in front of you. Use it instead
as a beacon. Let it guide you toward your goal."
"Yes, Master," he responds, a tiny grin curling the corners of
his mouth in a seductive way that causes me to smile in return.
His lips are often a particular focus of my attention. Soft and
full, and easily teased into a mischievous smile or a wanton
openness. That mouth has blazed searing trails across my skin,
in all directions, heedless of my pleas to stop. His lips
become a grim, tense line in battle or practice, as his jaw is
set with determination; this is when he is most tenacious and
not easily distracted.
Yet how simple a thing it is for him to distract my attention
when his kisses fall feather-light across my face, his lips
sensuously moving in one direction only...
"Begin again, and this time I want to see that you can execute
the routine without your saber." I direct him to return
to the exercise, sensing his willingness and eagerness to
please. "Show me the technique of the open hand," I instruct,
feeling a deep sense of peace flooding through my Padawan. He
starts again at the beginning, moving with graceful speed
through the various patterns he knows so well. The simple ones
first, then the more difficult, always with a confidence born
of repetition.
Obi-Wan obeys my subtle corrections immediately, his loyalty
complete. He is fierce in his devotion, like a wild animal
whose instincts drive him to protect the only home he knows. He
tempers this fidelity with the cooling influence of submission,
giving himself over to me in many things. He has surrendered to
me completely, body and spirit, and I have made of him what my
love dictated.
A sweep of his fingers to the right, an outstretched palm, and
objects move through his ability to focus the Force. First a
towel which sits abandoned beside the mats, then a small cup.
Finally, with dizzying ability, my Padawan has picked up every
object in the practice hall and suspended them in midair,
hurling them about in dangerous, synchronous orbits, as he runs
through the remaining steps of the exercise. I watch as he
moves his fingers quickly, with definitive gestures,
controlling every inanimate object in the room, his hands mere
extensions of the Force.
I once pressed the palm of my hand to his, and marveled at how
fragile his seemed in comparison. So small, barely half the
size. The tips of his fingers curled under slightly when his
skin contacted mine, and that tiny, gentle stroking made my
heart ache. When first he touched me, wrapping his shaking
fingers around the need which had grown to urgent proportions
in me, I knew he was not fragile at all. His strength nearly
broke me with its restrained tenderness.
Obi-Wan's movements slow, his drill coming to an end, and he
vaults over the mats to the final stance of the exercise,
measuring each breath. He walks toward me, hips swaying in the
leashed swagger I've come to appreciate, a seductive, voracious
gait. I have difficulty looking away as an image rises
unbidden, of those hips thrusting hard against me, penetrating
deeply, exposing me.
He never breaks his stride, never wavers in his focus, directed
toward me, eyes on my eyes. "Master," he says, acknowledging my
role, compelling me toward obedience to the title. Then he is
on me, practice tunic tossed aside, lips open and willing,
hands delving into regions so thoroughly explored that they
seem well-known and strange all at once. We fall to the ground,
biting, clinging, pushing against familiarity. His hands glide
over my shoulders, pulling down, as I roll into his touch,
wanting it too much to speak. Reckless need comes over me,
tinged with the brilliance of lust.
An urgent connection is formed, enraged and desperate in its
fervor, as I throw him on his stomach, and he pushes up to meet
me, growling like an untamed, wild thing. I rip aside the
intrusive cloth which separates us and I am inside him,
abandoning all gentleness, satisfying this primitive thing
which is burning in me, filling him until I am become a part of
him, undivided. My hunger ruptures the boundaries of what was
known before, as blinding as a naked sun. I am lost inside him,
feeling a burning build in me until I come apart, a thousand
colored threads unraveling, the substance of my existence torn
open. My arm is curled around his stomach, holding him in
place; my teeth have fastened to his shoulder blade, his
shuddering climax wracking us both. I lose all sense of myself
when I hear his howl of fulfillment crackling through the
silence of this sacred Jedi place.
We fall side by side to the floor, tremors coursing though us.
He breathes my name, thinks it; the word becomes a caress as it
slides from his tongue. I press my lips to his neck, to the
bloodied teeth marks on his shoulder, disturbed by the base
desire which overtook me. Reading me easily, my Padawan turns
to me, face pressed close to mine.
"Take me again, Master," he whispers, that infernal grin
lighting his face.
Archive 