Archive: master_apprentice and Jedi Moon, others ask, please
Category: Plot-What-Plot, Angst
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: Obi-Wan thinks about Qui-Gon's beautiful hands
Feedback: yes, please, any and all comments welcome.
His Hands
I watch his hands.
I watch them when he's leading a training class, how his
fingers curve around the lightsaber hilt, so strong, and sure,
never a false move.
I watch them when he's correcting one of the other students.
He'll take their hands in his own and fold their fingers around
the hilt in the right position, holding his hands over theirs
until he's sure they know the feel of the right grip, and I'm
so jealous that I'll sometimes drop mine just to feel those
hands on mine.
His hands.
And then after I do that, of course, I feel so stupid and wish
I'd just stayed in the background, because he'll come over and
take my hands, and fold my fingers around the hilt, and it's
all I can do not to bolt from the room. I feel like my every
emotion shows on my face.
Or he'll touch me on the shoulder, and I'll jump. So stupid.
Why can't I just . . .
Those hands.
I watch him when he takes a cup of tea at breakfast, how his
fingers curve around the cup when he brings it to his lips, and
when he takes a piece of bread, those long fingers breaking it
from the loaf, and he looks up at me and smiles and asks me
what I have planned for the day, and I can barely speak.
I watch him trim his beard, staring so intently into the mirror
and wielding the clippers so surely, trimming it just so, and I
wish I could do that for him, hold his face in my hands, be his
mirror.
I watch him pull his hair back after a shower, brush it back
smoothly and secure it in its thong, and lift it off his
shoulders, and, oh Gods! The shower room.
It's all business, of course, it's just getting clean, and no
one pretends it's anything else, or else we're all pretending
that it isn't . . .
I watch him step under the water, and fill his hands with soap,
and wash that wonderful body. I watch as he closes his eyes and
washes his hair, those long fingers raking through the strands
that I would love so much to touch.
He turns this way and that under the water, completely
unconcerned with his nakedness--tall, sure of himself, strong.
Beautiful. Completely unaware of me, of my thoughts as I watch
him.
Those hands.
Washing every inch, as I watch surreptitiously, constantly
afraid he'll notice that I'm watching, but unable to look away.
Will I ever be that sure of myself, that unconcerned of what
others think of me? Will I ever be able to walk through the
changing room like he does, not catching anyone's eyes, not
flaunting himself, just walking, like that. Like he owns the
world. Like he owns me.
We dress, putting on layer after layer, covering ourselves, and
I watch his hands as he fastens the ties and loops, and pulls
his cloak on and straightens it, and I wonder if I'll ever feel
those hands on me.
Oh, I've felt them on me, of course. And in love, I know, as he
touches my arm or shoulder, or my hand, to make a point. He
touches everyone. It's easy for him.
But what I mean is-I would give everything to feel those hands
on me, on my skin, stroking me, loving me . . . sometimes when
I touch myself I imagine that it's his hands on me, touching me
in the way only he knows, the secret places that make me cry
out, the strong, sure feel of him . . . but really, it doesn't
matter, it's just the thought of him touching me that makes me
come, that makes me cry out in my bed at night and muffle my
cries into the pillow.
His hands.
I wonder how he touches himself, how he gives himself pleasure
in the long dark hours of the night, what he thinks of as he
runs his hands over his own body, and takes his cock in his
hands.
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