Danger, Little Stranger

by Lilith Sedai (lilith_sedai@hotmail.com) and Cori Lannam (CoriLannam@aol.com)

Archive: Yes to any list we post this to. All others, please ask.

Category: Crossover, Angst, First Time

Pairings: Q/C, O/C, Q/O

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: a rather... autoerotic, faintly incestuous pairing

Spoilers: for Velvet Goldmine. None for TPM

Summary: Qui-Gon seeks Obi-Wan and finds him... and more of him than he'd bargained for. A Velvet Goldmine/Phantom Menace crossover.

Feedback: Yes, please! We crave feedback of all sorts, especially the kind where you tell us what you liked or didn't like.

Notes: Our most fervent thanks to Kate Evans, our own LapisLaz, for not only providing what shreds of a plot this story has, but also writing and editing bits of this for the last couple of months, and prodding/coddling us whenever needed. hugs Thanks also to the usual suspects on #tpm, also for extensive prodding/coddling. We hope it's worth the wait.

Qui-Gon stood quietly, composing his mind, in front of the portal. The vastness of time and space, and of the many universes that lay beyond this spot seemed to press in on him, but it was empty. The fading traces of Obi-Wan were stronger here, more recent than he had felt them elsewhere. The energy of the boy's terror, focused as he fell through the portal and out of the continuum he had shared with his Master, reverberated around this ancient, hidden place.

The memory of that moment shuddered through him.

Such a simple rescue mission, at the outset. The Nomorian ambassador and her consort had vanished in this system less than two days before, their small pleasure yacht leaving only the slightest trace to guide the Jedi along the path of descent. At the end of that path, twisted wreckage marked the hilltop crash site.

The two Knights paced around the crumpled ship, looking for any sign of survivors. At last Qui-Gon reached out with the Force to the interior of the ship, reluctantly confirming what they had surmised from the start. No signs of life within the yacht, but the Force still faintly vibrated from the sudden ending of two lives there. He closed his eyes briefly in respect, then looked over at his apprentice. Obi-Wan returned his glance with a grave nod and moved to further inspect the ship as Qui-Gon pulled out his comlink to contact the captain of their own ship.

"There are no survivors," he said when the captain picked up the call. "Inform the Chancellor and the Nomorian government. We will continue with the recovery."

"Yes, sir," the captain replied. Qui-Gon waited just long enough for the acknowledgment before switching off the comlink and turning back toward the wreckage. Recovery would likely mean cutting through the seared metal until they reached whatever remained of the ambassador and her spouse, an unpleasant task he did not look forward to. Force willing, the second component of their mission - determining the cause of the crash - would be a good deal less gruesome.

"Master, here!" Obi-Wan called from the other side of the main body of the wreckage. Qui-Gon followed Obi-Wan's voice until he stood beside his apprentice, examining the section of hull Obi-Wan was looking at. Deep, blackened scores marred the metal surface in a distinct pattern leading toward where the hyperdrive had been.

"Shot down," Qui-Gon murmured, and Obi-Wan nodded his agreement. Qui-Gon lifted his comlink again; they would need more sophisticated scanning equipment than what they carried on their belts. His thumb brushed the power button, then a warning flare burned up his spine. An instant later, he deflected two blaster shots with his lightsaber. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Obi-Wan do the same.

Whirling and setting themselves back-to-back, the two Jedi faced their attackers. Pirates, by the looks of them, come back to loot their kill, perhaps. At least twenty, with more coming up the hill every second. Too many for even Jedi to fight off on their own, but they had no choice.

They deflected the blaster bolts with inhuman speed, slowly inching in the direction of their own ship. The pirates muttered at their abilities, and a few backed away as their comrades fell to their own ricocheted shots, but more rushed in toward the Jedi than fell back.

Qui-Gon reached out to the Force, seeking a path to safety through the overwhelming surge of foes. He let his instincts seize him and made an abrupt move through a breach in the haphazard attack line, coming out at the edge of the hill -- just as Obi-Wan twisted into the air, coming down almost on top of him.

With a grunt of pain, Qui-Gon absorbed the impact of his apprentice's body striking his, managing to turn off his saber just in time to avoid skewering Obi-Wan on it. He shoved Obi-Wan off -- they could hardly fight or escape if they were jumbled together like clumsy kittens -- but instead of immediately regaining his fighting stance, Obi-Wan staggered, then tripped and tumbled head over feet down the hill. Cursing silently, Qui-Gon started to follow, hoping Jedi speed could help both of them get out of range before the pirates caught them. Then, suddenly, Obi-Wan vanished, blinking out of existence on the muddy grass as though...

As though sliding through a doorway.

He stumbled with the shock of losing Obi-Wan's presence in the Force; the next moment, the pirates swarmed over him, binding him even as a hypodermic injected drugs into him that made the world go black before he could gather himself to resist.

The days that followed blurred in his memory. The Council told him, afterward, of how the Nomorians had ransomed him and returned him to the Jedi, frantic to keep their goodwill and blaming themselves for Obi-Wan's loss. They presumed him dead, but the Council had known better... and then they told Qui-Gon of the portal. The sole known gateway to... other... places and times. Other dimensions, continuums, worlds. One of which now held Obi-Wan.

It had taken months to convince the Council to permit him to search, and more time to find again the delicately rippling patch of air before him. There was no way to be sure that if he stepped through he would even find himself in the same continuum with Obi-Wan. It was more likely, the Council had agreed, that there were many alternate realities, all holding Obi-Wans and Qui-Gons of their own, and that he might meddle in them and destroy them accidentally.

But Qui-Gon could not give up, could not release Obi-Wan. His miscalculation had been the cause, but his apprentice had paid the price. Everything that was Jedi within his soul screamed that he was honor-bound to find and rescue his Padawan. He knew with Force-born surety that the path they walked together had not yet reached its end. At last, the Council had shrugged their collective shoulders and left him to his doom.

He took a deep breath. He was a Jedi Master, and the Force ran strong throughout every reality, he was certain. It would guide him, and he would find Obi-Wan, hopefully wreaking as little havoc as possible in the process.

With another deep breath, he focused his entire being on Obi-Wan and stepped through the portal.

Bone-weary, he stumbled from the dizzying transition into yet another alien world. He had long since lost count of the places he had been, the distance he had traveled, the people he had met. In each new place, he had felt Obi-Wan's presence and gone in search, only to encounter the shock, again and again, of seeing someone who was not his padawan - and yet was.

Doppelgangers, the Council had warned him. Be wary.

He grew to hate them, after a while. They were ever-present reminders of his own guilt and self-abnegation, with Obi-Wan's face, but never his soul. Their presence in the Force felt familiar enough to set off a wave of longing within him, and yet it was twisted. These men were not his padawan, but it was still like seeing Obi-Wan, trapped in lives he would despise... pain, crime, dull routine... and, more than once, ugly death.

Abruptly he closed off that image. Obi-Wan dead. He accepted the possibility; he would not contemplate it as a reality.

This time, he filtered into a cold tall woods. His breath very nearly crystallized before his face. The tranquility of the pastoral scene was shattered by explosive noise, voices, and a shrieking he could not identify, but that did not sound organic.

This was another burned run. He could sense the aura of Obi-Wan's planar parallel, but the aura was cloudy, muddied, insubstantial and flickering. This was neither the cold, calculating hedonism of the young dandy nor the desperation of the young robber. This was... a scream of defiance covering an endless void of emptiness and aching need.

It impelled him, forced his boots to move, though he knew from the pain of his previous experiences that he should simply step away the moment he identified that the planar aura was not that of his padawan. But the primal howl struck something inside him he could not identify, and a tiny shiver of Force, unconsciously answering the call of a completely untrained mind, traveled through him.

The trees gave way at last to a clearing filled with people standing or sitting on the ground. Their attention focused on a raised platform at one end of the open area, where a handful of people stood among masses of some sort of electronic equipment. The pulsating noise he had heard emanated from that equipment and seemed to be what held the attention of the spectators.

After the first moment, Qui-Gon barely heard it at all.

The unexpected scream pierced him, cresting over the raw, violent torrent of emotions surging between the assembly of people and the ones on stage. Qui-Gon's eyes locked to the central figure as his soul was subsumed in the cry of lust. Such a thing he had never seen.

Barechested, hips covered with tight leather trousers, screaming a heart full of need and defiance into the night, was the image of his padawan. So close and yet so far, aching flickers of the man he knew intermingled with shocking silences, crudities, and with an all-consuming frenzied need in place of the cool, controlled serenity of his own Obi-Wan.

This being was badly damaged in mind, had been abused in body and soul, but those things had coalesced in him to form something that Obi-Wan might never even understand existed, much less wish to possess. There was nothing that could be done to heal this one, and little that could further harm him. All he knew was the need and whatever might fill it for the moment.

The audience froze, then wailed, pressing forward, and Qui-Gon found himself among them. His simple tunic, trousers, and boots were lost among the glittering glow of the young people who surrounded him and parted around the inexorable motion of his passage as he forced his way to the foot of the stage and stared up at what he found there.

This close, the music seized him like a living thing, driven by the reckless energy of the shining creature above him. Around him, the listeners responded with frantic shrieks, and the man fed their excitement into his own sensual frenzy. It seemed not to be enough, and one slender white hand found its way into the tight black pants, rubbing, teasing, building the arousal of his audience as much as his own.

Qui-Gon's throat dried until each breath came as a rasp as he watched. Never. Never, not if they lived until every sun had burned down to an ember, would he see this display, this need, in Obi-Wan. If such a need lurked within the young Jedi's soul, it was and would always be buried beyond the reach of anyone, including himself.

Including Obi-Wan's master.

His master, who had trained him so well in the ways of serenity. His master, whose clumsy error had sent the person he treasured most in all the universes tumbling into nothingness. His master, whose own need they never spoke of, never acknowledged, but which now boiled up in him with every twitch of this doppelganger's body.

From the moment the youth had upended the vessel, letting the slick oil pour onto his body and then smearing it over himself, Qui-Gon knew he had been lost.

Now the demon angel sang, his breath forcing passion into the words, a thick smoky voice that devoured the audience; the boy was feeding, black-blue eyes sucking the response, and he stoked the fires in his own body, reaching behind with one slim hand.

Qui-Gon felt his fists clench as the tongue flickered out over curled lips, and the singer jerked, sensing his passion, and began to writhe in response to it, in response to the entire audience. To have this one, take him, fill that need... feel it draw forth from Qui-Gon what it required....

And again the double responded, lust snapping his muscles into wild contortions, passion and sex rippling from his very skin as he danced.

Qui-Gon tried to breathe, but couldn't, transfixed. The boy snatched up a small canister, began to shake it over him. Sparkling flecks fell over him, settling to caress the oiled body, flying wildly as he snapped into an ecstatic pivot, then cascading forth as he taunted the audience, taunted Qui-Gon, with the parody of self-pleasure. The glittering flakes settled over Qui-Gon like fine metallic snow.

He lifted his face to the downpour and closed his eyes, accepting the shower of glitter covering him as though taking in the very essence of the young man.

Another shower cascaded over him as the singer shook off the glitter still clinging to his body and his limbs jerked wildly with the pounding music. Qui-Gon felt his own muscles twitch in response, just as a handful of ragged youths a few feet away stood and began yelling what must have been obscenities at the stage. The heckling broke through the edge of his trance-like state, but it only energized the strangely graceful, if convulsive, dance all the more.

The young man responded with a series of gestures; vulgar, and yet compelling in a way the Jedi had never experienced. Hips thrust forward, he spread his arms, inviting the gazes upon him to feast their fill, almost inviting them to do more than look. Qui-Gon's hands clenched restlessly with their own response to the display.

Then his entire body clenched. Surprised, aroused.

With a fluid motion like the striking of a snake, the boy had unzipped the single garment he wore and his hands were within it again, teasing, offering, gleefully contemptuous.

It was torment unbearable, watching those hands part the leather over the slim muscular hipbones, watching the youthful ecstasy spill over into senseless movement. He bit blood out of his cheek, trying to keep control, as the boy bent, revealing himself, hard vicious gestures inviting the audience, the crude swearing men, daring them to try to fill him.

And then he was standing straight again, turning, bounding toward the audience with condescending eagerness. Ah, none of them could touch him and the boy knew it, knew it and hated it and let his contempt fly along with the pleasure in tormenting and depriving them. Through the strange link woven between them, he felt Qui-Gon's desperation, his eyes flickering to touch the Jedi's, his mouth opening in a lascivious, wide grin as he devoured the despairing need he saw there.

He turned that grin on the crowd, fingertips flickering, urging someone, anyone, to come to him. Someone else to feel such beautiful need, to distract him from his own and eclipse it, at least for the heated fire-filled moment. But for a moment it was nearly too much for him, and he twisted, fell, writhing on the stage, tangled in the garment that had fallen, forgotten, at his ankles.

He disappeared briefly from Qui-Gon's view, and the Jedi fought the sudden, nearly overwhelming urge to jump to his rescue. This was not his apprentice... and any such rescue would only be an excuse for his hands to touch that hot, damp skin.

But then the boy was on his feet again, pulling up his trousers so casually over the slick, sparkling flesh. His hips shifted gently, unconsciously, with the simmering beat of the music, the movement carrying up into his torso as he surveyed his audience with the gleaming eyes of the triumphant conqueror.

Then those eyes met Qui-Gon's again and the connection completed.

Desire became a current through his body as his seducer held out his arms and beckoned to him. His entire being focused on this one moment of pure need, and he groaned as the boy's face went slack, surrendering himself to the pull he'd created between them. Qui-Gon gasped for air, body shaking, as the driving guitar neared its climax.

Light flashed in the corner of his eye, and the boy kicked without looking, lashing out with almost Jedi instinct to deflect the thrown fire, and suddenly the stage was in flames, the heat searing across his face. He let out a strangled cry as the young singer broke away from his gaze, moving back from the flames only a step, lifting his arms and writhing ecstatically as the orange tongues flickered around him.

A tortured moan escaped Qui-Gon's lips. The fire burned hotter, higher, and then the boy met his gaze again.

With a wide grin, he flung himself from the stage, clearing the flames with almost Jedi-like precision... but the loose limbs, the expression of abandon as he plunged down toward Qui-Gon's instinctively upraised arms, had nothing of the Jedi in them.

Nothing of Obi-Wan.

And, as his hands rose to meet that feverishly hot, slippery flesh for the first time, Qui-Gon was deeply glad of that fact.

The slender body arched in the air, tight as a wire as he fell heavily against Qui-Gon, a welcome impact. But even as Qui-Gon reached to draw him in, other hands flailed around them, pushing them apart as they lifted their fallen idol up over their heads.

Dizzy from the flames, agonized by the sudden loss of contact, Qui-Gon blindly groped in the air until his hand found the solid heat of the boy's side once more. His fingers trailed over the skin as the crowd pulled the young man away, glancing against the bare arm and brushing his hand. Slender fingers clutched at his, and he saw the boy's head twist around, seeking him, knowing his touch, even he vanished over a crest in the screaming mass.

Qui-Gon staggered back as the crowd shifted away from the stage, following the demon boy who had captivated them. He drew several harsh, panting breaths, shaking his head to clear the fog of desire. Shakily, he took a halting step away. Control. He needed control. He needed... Force, no! Whatever he needed, such things were out of the question. Time, space, the Council, Obi-Wan... out of the question.

Another step, then another, then he was moving quickly, wrapping the shreds of his composure around him, heading for the woods once more. The spell was fading, slowly, the sight of that body and those eyes had burned into his retinas but the immediate visual and auditory stimulus was reduced enough to permit him to put one foot in front of the other. Guilt drove him onward now, the knowledge that he had allowed himself to become distracted by desire burned him worse than the lust he still felt in his heart.

Force preserve him, though, he could still feel the boy on his skin; the oil and sweat and glitter and the musk of the boy's own scent was all over him now. He'd have to clean it away before he could go on.

He sensed emptiness inside a tent and slipped inside, picking up a rag in shaky hands, scrubbing at the residue of the boy, knowing he would never be free of the memory of that lascivious satyr and his dance of need, even if he should find his Obi-Wan again.

To taste that. Ah... he could. He could. Without reservation and without direct consequence to Obi-Wan's innocence or their training bond... if he ever even saw his apprentice again....

Qui-Gon felt a terrible emptiness sweep through him, rolling over him, engulfing him. So many shadows he had visited in vain, and so many of them so different from his own Obi-Wan! The worst were these shattered ones, the ones that had found no ground to cling to. And so many of them had been rampantly sexual, also unlike his Obi-Wan. He wondered with a pang if he was what had driven that sensuality from the soul of his padawan, or if it were merely a result of Jedi training.

Perhaps Obi-Wan had harnessed that energy and used it to drive himself through the training, made it feed the incredible technical excellence he had developed. There was, after all, a fine line between passion and aggression.

But he was lying to himself, saying that there would be no consequences from this visit. Already there were consequences, for the worst of this experience... the worst was that this time there were not just the changes Qui-Gon had found in the shadow of his lost padawan. This time, the shadow being had created changes in him, enticed his desire. He would carry that desire always, he would see that shadow lingering near every time Obi-Wan moved or spoke....

"You're different from the others," a sultry voice breathed from behind him, and Qui-Gon froze. "You're like me." The singer's voice was soft, but it held a breath of triumph and of foresight.

He turned slowly, met the electric gaze once more. "Like you?" he said hoarsely, wondering how much of what he was about to say was a lie. "My young friend, I assure you, I am nothing at all like you."

The boy merely smiled and took a step inside the tent, letting the entrance flap fall back into place. Qui-Gon held his ground, even as every nerve screamed a warning.

"No, man, you're right where I am. You think I don't feel it?" Two more steps, and the heat of his bare flesh became a palpable sensation.

"I don't know what you feel," Qui-Gon ground out.

The smile brightened to incandescence, and the boy's eyes glowed with a strange, magnetic light. "You do. You feel it, too, you feel me." He reached out and, as Qui-Gon held himself very still, laid his hand on Qui-Gon's chest. "Right here." The pale fingers stroked lightly, working their way into the folds of his tunic, and Qui-Gon bowed his head in defeat.

"You got the signals," the voice sounded so strange without the familiar lilt of Obi-Wan's accent, sharp and rough. "So you're not into glam. Think I give a damn what you're into, old man?"

Qui-Gon barely heard the words as those painted fingernails teased at his chest.

"I see the stars in your eyes and I know what you need." The voice grew softer now, husky. The demon was leaning closer, reaching up, painted lids lowering, the exhalation of his desire hot on Qui-Gon's mouth. "Give it up."

The hand on his chest slid around his ribs inside his shirt with shocking speed, and the boy's hips ground against his, but the mouth was feather-light, the pungent taste of the oil spreading between them. The demonic tongue flickered out with the blinding speed and skill it had shown before when offered to all. It pushed past Qui-Gon's lips and tickled at his palate. The taste was raw with alcohol, but beneath it... the spice and musk... the scent of sweat so achingly familiar....

And then it was all withdrawn from him, and the boy stood away, one hip cocked, his fingers sliding so very slightly into the waistband of the trousers, the very line of his body a wordless promise of carnal ecstasy.

Aching hunger lanced through Qui-Gon. Too much, the memory of the boy's gyrating body, his frenzied abandon. If he turned his back now, it would never be offered him again.

The narrow, sensual lips curled as the boy read his expression. Confident, triumphant, he stalked forward and lifted the rough tunic, sliding both hands into the Jedi's trousers. "That's it," he purred.

Strong fingers gripped his flesh and Qui-Gon let go. Damn the Jedi, damn the danger, damn his need for Obi-Wan. The moment was here; he would not deny it. No one would ever know.

With a soft release of breath, he let his hips move forward against the boy. Once, twice, and he hardened, gently returning the triumphant laugh of his companion. "I'm not such an old man as you think," he murmured, running his fingers up the stubble-roughened jaw until they tangled in the sweat-damp hair. Then he pulled the boy's mouth to his and let his hunger have control.

The younger man thrust against him, hands still exploring his hidden flesh, guiding the slow, undulating motion of their bodies. Qui-Gon kept one hand cupping the singer's head, while the other worked its way down his body, mapping each eerily familiar inch. He tasted the wet mouth beneath his over and over, memorizing each sensation as it washed over him.

"Your name, lad," Qui-Gon gasped, between kisses. "What's your name?"

"Curt. Curt Wild." And the eyes that looked up into his... were.

The unfamiliar label and the knowledge in those eyes broke the final barriers in Qui-Gon, and he dragged the singer up to meet his kiss, not caring when Curt pushed his trousers down over his hips and undulated gently against Qui-Gon until they fell.

Effortless experience, a lifetime of debauchery in the gesture, and Curt's hands were on Qui-Gon's hips, sliding smoothly to be where they wanted, opening him, entering him, both forefingers at once. Qui-Gon gasped, almost a sob, and drove his mouth against the younger man's. Curt laughed very softly and slipped them away, his oil-soaked chest slithering against Qui-Gon until he knelt. Eyes ringed with kohl, sparkling above red lips, never left Qui-Gon's as Curt nipped the tip of his erection and then slid over it effortlessly, teeth scraping, tongue playing over the straining flesh with maddening delicacy.

Qui-Gon hissed; he had never felt anything like it. No lover had ever achieved this level of skill that could only come with complete wanton abandon. Nor had he ever had a connection with a lover like he had with this one, this man who was, but was not, his padawan.

Tiny points of fire sprang up wherever Curt's teeth grazed, spreading into him with each stroke of soft lips. When Curt leaned back and tugged hard at his hips, Qui-Gon fell onto his knees and covered the smaller body in one smooth motion, already eager for more.

Curt arched beneath him and tried to wrap his legs around Qui-Gon's waist, but Qui-Gon pushed down on the soft inner thighs, keeping the younger man spread out beneath him. Lowering his mouth to Curt's shoulder, he ravenously tasted the sweet, oil-slicked skin, sucking it and nipping it with his teeth. Slowly he made his way down the oiled chest, circling the navel before trailing along his hip. Even as Curt moaned and thrashed beneath the ministrations, Qui-Gon was mapping out his body, learning each curve and dip on the smooth, flawless skin.

No scars, no marks. No faint pink line from an errant lightsaber swing, no jagged white remnant from a pirate's knife. Whatever part of him could still think wondered when he had learned his padawan's body so well, that he could compare it in such detail to the lover now squirming beneath his hands and lips.

"Come on," Curt said, gasping as Qui-Gon rubbed a hand along his chest until it was covered in oil, then closed his fist around Curt's thick, curving cock, pulling upwards in quick strokes. "Yeah. Oh, fuck. Fuck. More." He lifted his legs again, and this time Qui-Gon allowed him to drape his calves around Qui-Gon's hips. "Oh, fuck. More."

An arm flailed up, and Qui-Gon seized the elbow, pulling Curt up into his lap and letting himself be borne back onto the padded floor of the tent. Curt straddled him, a feral grin twisting his mouth just before it closed bruisingly over Qui-Gon's. He sucked at Qui-Gon's lips before sliding down his body once more, chest rubbing Qui-Gon's erection as he bit at stiff nipples. Qui-Gon cried out softly and raised his knees; Curt knelt between his spread legs and lifted him.

Penetration was fast, almost brutal, despite the ample lubrication, and Qui-Gon bit his swollen lip as Curt pushed hard into him. The boy grunted with each thrust, and Qui-Gon echoed him, glorying in the invasion of his trembling body, the spikes of pleasure shooting up his spine every time the thick cock filled him. Lust, pure and unapologetic... relief washed over him at finally surrendering to it.

Curt's thrusts shortened, quickened, until Qui-Gon heard a strangled cry through the haze of need and felt the heat of the boy's climax bathe him. Qui-Gon groaned in pleasure and frustration as his partner withdrew, reaching down to take his own cock in his hand and relieve the maddening pressure, but Curt grabbed at his hand. "No," he gasped, eyes blinking rapidly. "You want me? Fuck. Just take it."

He was well beyond refusing such an offer. With a growl that was almost a groan, he surged up and threw Curt down onto his stomach before coming down hard onto the boy's back. His cock rubbed between the tight cheeks and Qui-Gon dazedly kissed the back of the boy's neck as his hips sought the best angle for entry. He lifted himself up enough to kiss along Curt's shoulder as he shifted for the first thrust, rubbing a hand down his back to soothe the anticipatory tremors in the muscles there, his thumb brushing along the bottom of the boy's left shoulder blade.

Then he froze.

There, just under the bone, a small scar. A silly accident, really. A tiny burn from a speeder engine he had not been old enough to know not to go near. It had healed well enough, leaving only the small smooth mark as a reminder of youthful folly.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes against the sight of the identical mark on this strange almost-twin's back. The double of his padawan, whose body he was only the slightest movement away from penetrating. He shook with the effort of holding himself back - it was wrong, it had to be - but in seconds he had lost the battle, as he knew he would.

With a groan, he buried himself deep in the tight, sweet warmth, pressing his face into the damp hair so he wouldn't have to see, wouldn't have to think. Curt jerked in his arms with each hard thrust, which only made it feel better for Qui-Gon. He groaned and hissed, again and again, as everything faded into a blur except for the intense focus of sexual bliss in his cock.

He dug his fingernails into Curt's biceps, pressed his gritted teeth to the young man's shoulder, and thrust hard and deep until the pressure became unbearable, until one last shove was enough to still him, deep within the hot body under him, as he shouted his orgasm.

Panting, still shivering with the last tremors of climax, he sucked gently at the mark he had left on the pale skin beneath his lips. Curt murmured appreciatively, head buried in his arms. Qui-Gon gave one last gentle thrust into the younger man, then withdrew and reluctantly pulled himself off Curt's back. A languid warmth filled his legs, and for a moment he wondered if they would hold him. But they did, at least enough for him to stumble across the earthen floor of the tent.

Curt remained on the ground, forehead still pressed into his forearms. Qui-Gon resisted the urge to once again blanket the slender form with his own body, and settled for returning to kneel momentarily, stroking his fingers through the fine dark blond hair. He had taken what he needed; he wondered if he had given his savage young lover anything in return.

Curt turned his head enough to give Qui-Gon a lazy, feline smile. When he spoke, his voice was low and roughened with smoke and booze and sex. "Who is he?"

Qui-Gon frowned, puzzled by the question. "Who is who?"

Curt rolled onto his back and stretched indolently, closing his eyes. "The guy... your guy. You said his name when you got off."


The blue-green eyes opened again and fastened their gaze on him with mellow amusement. "You fucking screamed it, man. Some weird-ass name... wasn't mine." He grinned briefly, a flash of white in the dim light. "Knew it wasn't mine. I'm not that stoned."

Qui-Gon could find no reply. Slowly, with a last caress, he stood. "Be well, my young friend," he said softly, knowing mention of the Force would mean nothing to him.

"He's fucking lucky, whoever he is," Curt's voice called behind him, and Qui-Gon paused in the entranceway. "Fucking lucky."

Still no answer rose in his mind, and he slipped out of the tent and vanished into the woods.

The crowd had dispersed and the woods were silent. Qui-Gon realized that in spite of his subjective sense of time, it was very nearly dawn. His... loss of control... had taken far longer than he had anticipated or been aware of.

The portal beckoned to him, but what he had left behind beckoned also. Qui-Gon cast a final, longing look over his shoulder, and heeled off into the fading night at an easy lope. He did not hesitate at the lip of the portal. Obi-Wan, his heart called, and he flashed through, stumbling as height and terrain changed.

And this time, it was there. The sudden wrench of contact through the bond was clear the moment before his feet scuffled in dead leaves and he fell with a thud. So close he could almost reach out and touch.

Qui-Gon scrambled to his feet from the spot where his rough landing had tumbled him, and raced up the nearby ridge in a most undignified manner, seeking visual evidence of the sense he had found in himself. Cresting the ridge, he saw his suspicions confirmed. Like an arrow, the sturdy figure of his padawan was darting toward him from a rough lean-to, face alight with joy, calling happily.

"Master!" Obi-Wan's shout was surprised and ecstatic.

Qui-Gon felt his heart swell with overwhelming happiness as he began to reach out... but then he stopped, as Obi-Wan flew from the forest edge into a patch of light.

His padawan's Jedi clothes were ragged, the tunic half torn from his back. The dearth of food from the lack of surrounding civilization had worn at him, taking flesh, making him wire-slender. His hair had grown long, flopping to either side of his face, slightly bleached by the sun... so like Curt's....

Qui-Gon's heart stood still, as this figure merged for a moment with the one he had so recently touched, but this Obi-Wan's eyes were clear and sparkling, his skin bronzed by sun, and the energy he radiated was pure joy unalloyed by any hint of sex.

Qui-Gon shifted uncomfortably, unaccountably nervous. Of course this would happen immediately after he left Curt; the previous plane was definitely not the best place or time for him to have given in to lust.

"Obi-Wan," he said, his words perhaps a shade less warm than he had intended them to be, but the boy didn't bother to notice, so overwhelmed by the unexpected and long-awaited reunion that he was launching himself at Qui-Gon with the force of an uncoiling spring.

The deja-vu stunned him, overwhelmed him, as his arms rose for the second time in the past few hours to catch an armful of wildly-flung young man, the abandoned, ecstatic burden bowling him over this time, and they rolled in a flurry of limbs down the hill nearly all the way to the portal, Obi-Wan laughing, almost crying, with relief.

Shaking with relief and shame, Qui-Gon managed to disentangle himself, rising to his knees and brushing at ragged bits of leaf in his hair.

"I didn't think you could find me, Master." Obi-Wan lay as he was for a long moment, sighing, his taut form relaxing for a moment against the forest loam. "I'm so glad you did."

"I am glad also, my Padawan," Qui-Gon said softly, squinting against a ray of sunshine that penetrated the canopy. Obi-Wan rose, stretching a little, but then frowned at him suddenly, puzzled.

"What's this?" He was definitely amused and nonplussed as he reached, deftly flicking two fingertips against Qui-Gon's face, and displayed shiny fingertips, coated with oily, sparkling flakes of gold and silver.

Qui-Gon's voice failed him as he stared at the condemning evidence, and he instinctively slammed his mental shields shut without thinking, then winced as Obi-Wan drew up short, shocked by the vehemence of his expulsion from Qui-Gon's mind.

Obi-Wan frowned, a little hurt by the sudden exclusion, and brushed the substance off his fingers against the filthy trousers he wore. "It's all over you, you know. Whatever it is."

Qui-Gon stifled a groan and stopped hands that were in the process of rising to try to clean his face, then pretended he hadn't been moving to do it.

"Is there anything you wish to take, Obi-Wan?" he asked. "Now that I've found you, we can return home."

"No, I don't think so, Master." His padawan tilted his head thoughtfully. "You know a way out of here? Where did you come from, anyway? It was like you weren't here, and then suddenly you were."

"I used a portal." Qui-Gon gave the short, almost incomprehensible explanation, and his quick glance let Obi-Wan know that more information would have to wait until later. "Come. I have been long hunting for you. We must return to Coruscant."

Obi-Wan rose to his feet obediently, dusting himself off, and turned, clearly seeking visual evidence of the portal. Qui-Gon's throat almost closed -- visible through a tear in the back of his tunic was that same scar he had noticed on Curt, and Qui-Gon almost reached for it with trembling fingertips, but made himself stop instead.

"This way." He knew his voice was flat, but Obi-Wan didn't question, falling into step a pace behind and to his left. As always.

His master was in a temper, Obi-Wan reflected. Perhaps there was danger. He kept a sharp eye out, regretting the absence of his lightsaber. There was nothing visibly different to him about the portion of the forest that Qui-Gon selected, but he followed close in Qui-Gon's footsteps nonetheless.

His Master reached out, caught Obi-Wan's arm at the wrist, then changed his mind, drawing his padawan close to his chest. "As we move through the portal, we must stay together," Qui-Gon directed.

"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan permitted himself to be drawn close, savoring his master's reassuring presence.

His nose wrinkled a little as he settled against the larger man. There was an acrid smell on Qui-Gon, something oily, and something musky as well.... Obi-Wan was startled, his head turning to seek further evidence, when the universe sliced itself to pieces around them and then reassembled.

"Far out!"

Heads turned in tandem to seek the source of the unexpected voice.

Qui-Gon went stiff, silent, and Obi-Wan gazed at the witness to their materialization curiously. A young man, early twenties, oddly dressed... face in shadow, half obscured by ragged hair.

"Man, I thought I was tripping. Now I'm sure of it." A laugh rang harsh in the quiet dawn woods.

Obi-Wan frowned, leaning forward to see, felt Qui-Gon's hands tighten painfully on his shoulders, as though to drag him backward, but he shrugged the grasp off and stepped forward. Something strange here, something... his nostrils flared, the raw acrid scent stronger now, and he could see an oily sheen fixing the sparkles on the young man's hair, face, and chest... trailing all the way down to disappear into the waist of his tight black pants. Obi-Wan's eyes widened a little, and he struggled to resist the most obvious conclusion, but it was hard.

"So is this him, old man, or what?" The boy lifted his head with another abrasive laugh, stepping forward, flipping his hair back over his forehead.

Qui-Gon did not answer, and Obi-Wan twisted his head to look up at him. Qui-Gon knew this person? It just looked worse and worse....

"Master?" he said very softly; the word was meant for Qui-Gon's ears only, but the stranger heard it too, and laughed.

"Master? Fuck, he calls you Master?" he said, half-bent with harsh laughter. "Shit, man, that's a sweet deal you got. I mean, fuck, look at that body. And he calls you Master. I don't know what the hell you wanted with me when you got that."

The entire world slowed to a stop, dragging Obi-Wan with it to a single, unavoidable conclusion: Qui-Gon had been with this boy. With him. Fucked him. So recently that the Jedi Master had not even had time to wash the evidence from his body.

Or had not wanted to.

Unable to believe, he reached up again to touch the shimmering residue on Qui-Gon's face, but his master moved with Jedi reflexes to stop his hand before it could touch him. "Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon started hoarsely, but Obi-Wan was already shaking off his grip, having found his guess confirmed in his master's eyes.

He turned and took a few long strides toward the strange boy, uncertain of what he meant to say or do, but filled with an almost violent need to do something.

Then he saw the boy's face. Shadowy, distorted by the streaks of dirt and the lines of kohl, but unmistakable. Unmistakably himself. Obi-Wan.

A wave of dizziness passed over him as he stared in redoubled horror. His own face stared back at him, equally stunned, but even as he watched, an expression of intrigue began to form.

It was too much for Obi-Wan, and he turned and ran.

"Obi-Wan!" his master shouted after him, but he did not pause until the only sound was the crunch of dead leaves beneath his boots and his own panting breath. Then, finally, he stopped, heart pounding less from the exertion than from the lingering shock.

A boy with his face. He knew the theory of parallel dimensions as well as anyone; he knew that every person had a potential double in one of those dimensions. To meet with one was strange, possibly dangerous, but potentially fascinating....

Except that Qui-Gon had already met Obi-Wan's double. And fucked him.

Obi-Wan drew a breath that shuddered with pain and confusion. Fucking was all it could have been, he felt sure, having seen his double. His arms still prickled with the raw energy that poured off the other boy, energy that seeped into places within Obi-Wan he had shut away long ago, in accordance with his Jedi training. And in obedience to the perpetual serenity and solemnity of his master.

His master, who had just fucked a wild boy who wore Obi-Wan's face.

Furiously, Obi-Wan slammed his hand against the trunk of the nearest tree, scraping it down the rough bark until his skin tore, channeling his anger out through the physical pain. His mind raced in circles, always returning to Qui-Gon and how he could have done it. Why he would have done it. Something Obi-Wan found immensely difficult to contemplate with calm reason.

"Sith hells," Obi-Wan muttered and slumped against the tree he had hit. All the years of carefully built trust, constructed upon their roles as Jedi, all those years of depriving himself, trying to be what he thought his master most wanted-- shattered now as if it had all been made of nothing but glass and air. He drew a deep, gulping breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

His own most personal feelings for his teacher, his mentor, had grown slowly, and subtly altered from childish adoration into something of great and delicate beauty that he dared not express. Something that was now soiled by the oily touch of someone who was not Obi-Wan, but who seemed to do just as well in his master's eyes-- no, better, for Qui-Gon had never touched him so, never even given a hint of wanting him. He'd simply grown to believe that his master only desired women. Not unusual, not unexpected. Something Obi-Wan could live with. But this....

The crunching of approaching footsteps entered his awareness, and his back stiffened. He turned and pressed his cheek to the damp bark of the tree, already determined not to acknowledge Qui-Gon until forced. Maybe by then he would have figured out what to say to the other man.

"Some far-out shit, huh?"

At the unexpected voice, Obi-Wan straightened and turned sharply. His doppelganger faced him, not two paces away, an odd smile playing around the eerily familiar lips. The young man looked as ragged and noisome as he had before. Even after weeks alone in the wilderness, Obi-Wan felt ready to appear before the Supreme Chancellor in comparison.

"Are you real?" the other asked, the words a half-whisper, face fading in and out of the dawn light as he moved closer, shining eyes fastened to Obi-Wan's.

Though he tried, Obi-Wan couldn't deny the magnetic draw of those eyes. He wondered if his own had as much pull. Evidently not, if one asked Qui-Gon Jinn. "Yes," he replied at last to both questions, forcing the word stiffly.

"I'm Curt," the other said, voice as raggedly sensual as Obi-Wan's was precise. "Curt Wild." A most appropriate name, if appearances were any indication. The boy stood as though he intended to pounce on something. Or someone.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Curt's lips turned upward briefly. "Man, I knew it. I knew when I saw you with the old man that you were the one he meant."

Obi-Wan bristled slightly at hearing Qui-Gon called an old man; his master was still in his prime, despite the wisdom of his years.

Curt ignored the slight flicker of hostility. "But I didn't know you'd be...." He gestured vaguely to himself, then to Obi-Wan, his meaning clear.

"I wasn't expecting you at all," Obi-Wan said, half to himself.

The other boy radiated sexuality, moved with every confidence in his own erotic power. Unnatural passion shone from his eyes, born from a life wholly different from what Obi-Wan had known, but with a hint of yearning and naivete belied by the alluring swing of his hips and enhanced by the softness of his mouth.

Endearing. Compelling. Riveting. He could almost forgive Qui-Gon a moment of weakness... if he could honestly believe that was what it was. His own knees were weakening, as was the power of his resentment. Curt was eyeing him openly, an expression of wonder growing on his face.

His double stepped forward until Obi-Wan could feel the hot breath against his skin. Slowly, Curt raised his hand to cup Obi-Wan's face; Obi-Wan held himself very still, unable to respond, but unwilling to break the spell.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? You're fucking amazing," Curt breathed and bent forward.

This, then, was what Qui-Gon would have felt. It must be. Like some incredible dream... Obi-Wan let his eyes drift half-shut, tilting his own face until Curt's mouth met his own. After a moment of hesitation on Obi-Wan's part, their lips moved softly together in a bizarre but intensely sensual exploration.

Obi-Wan drew back first, discomfort and disbelief making him break the spell, shocked at the response he felt to that wicked mouth. "This is crazy," he objected, taking a step back. Curt pursued, stalking.

"Ever jerk off?" His half-mad, half doe-like eyes taunted Obi-Wan. "You did that with yourself. This can't be that much different." Curt's smile grew wider, softer, more genuine.

Obi-Wan cast a desperate, nervous glance over Curt's shoulder, as though Qui-Gon might appear and rescue him. Reaching for something, anything, to defend against the sensuality that was threatening to overwhelm him, Obi-Wan came up with anger.

"You seduced my master," he accused, and Curt shrugged, a gleeful little smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

"I'll seduce you, if you let me," Curt promised, the smile escaping. "Wouldn't you like to get... a piece of your own, Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan felt tree-bark at his shoulders, and the world narrowed again, focusing in on the lips that drifted toward his own for a second time, sealing over his for a moment to steal his breath, soft wise instinct, gentle suction. "Come on," Curt whispered without backing off, his lips brushing tingling fire against Obi-Wan's. "Before the old man breaks up the party and takes you back to Neverland."

Obi-Wan felt a shiver course cool fire though him and realized he was nodding, brushing those lips with his own movement. "All right," he breathed, his voice half-catching in his chest. Oh, this was insane. He had never done anything like this before... but perhaps, in the end, that was the point.

Quicker than thought, Curt pulled back and his hand caught Obi-Wan's, tugging him along. Obi-Wan matched the frenetic energy of the run. Curt laughed, exhilarated, and Obi-Wan joined him in that too, branches whipping against his face with a sting like tears.

Curt cracked open a beer, casually ignoring his visitor, negotiating the shambles of the trailer with indifferent familiarity. Obi-Wan swallowed, ill at ease in this squalor, not knowing how to cope with the familiar stranger who wore his body, his face. He couldn't rip his eyes from Curt, looking longingly at what Qui-Gon had taken, wishing he could trade places somehow and become the one his master had wanted.

"Can I borrow some clothes?" Obi-Wan asked at last, shrugging uncomfortably against the grit and sweat in his own ragged outfit.

"Sure. Grab what you want. Get a shower." Curt could have used his own advice, but he lay back on the squeaking yellow mattress instead, staring at the ceiling, a cigarette burning down between his lips and the remains of the beer in his hand. Some of the energy had dissipated, Obi-Wan understood, and emptiness was taking its place.

"Shit, I'm coming down," Curt complained. "Make it fast, kid, then come to bed." He lay back, squirming lasciviously.

Obi-Wan shucked away his tattered tunic without thinking. "I'm not a kid, and I'm not going to sleep with you," Obi-Wan denied, after pausing a second too long. Curt just laughed.

"Fuck, yes, you're a kid." Curt shook his head, amused. "You're a kid here." He tapped his temple significantly, smirking. "It shines all through you. And you wonder why the old bastard won't touch you." Curt's eyes gleamed with familiarity and amusement, and a shaft of faded sunlight from a dirty window filtered over his chest, catching the last flakes of glitter on his body.

"He--" Obi-Wan's anger hitched in his voice, but the demon self's intuitions were razor-sharp. No hiding from him, no escape from this relentless alter-self. "I'm as old as you are," he managed, defiantly, kicking off his second boot.

"You'll have to teach him that," Curt observed, rolling over lazily, stretching to ease his shoulders. "Have you ever made love with a man?" Curt licked his lips unconsciously, half turning to face Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan froze in mid motion, his thumbs hooked in the waistband of the trousers he was discarding to prepare for bathing. A little love-play between curious, half-shy padawans, some touching, once or twice a little more serious experimentation... but no. He hadn't.

"I was in a circle-jerk," he responded defiantly, the next best thing he could think of. Curt rolled his eyes, laughing.

"That's your problem, kid. You never felt a man inside you, never sucked one off, never spread yourself over his body and licked the sweat off him cause it just tasted so good." Curt's voice became a wistful croon. "Never bent over and spread your cheeks for that big rough master of yours to drive it in." Curt rose fluidly, bending forward, hands on his hips, a sudden humorless grin splitting his face as he pantomimed the words he spoke, jerking forward with an exaggerated sigh of bliss, as though what he described were being done to him.

Obi-Wan's face went hot with anger, and then pale, and he shoved the dirty cloth down his waist and hips, kicked it off, ignoring Curt's appreciative, lazy eyes on him, ignoring his suggestive pose.

"You've never put it to him, either." Curt's grin was evil now, speculative, as he probed Obi-Wan for reaction. "Never laid on top and saw that mane of hair spread out all over, seen his eyes fall shut and heard him gasp when you shoved it in, felt him hiss when you pulled it out. You've never seen him lick those sweet lips and then sucked the taste of his tongue off them for yourself." Curt's hand slid over his front, teasing the prominent swelling that lay inside the leather pants he still wore.

Obi-Wan was shaking with rage and shame, fists clenched, on the verge of murder and tears. "You're evil." His voice was low, choked.

"Yeah." Curt chuckled low for a moment, his eyes shifting through a spectrum of light, from glee to pity, warmth blossoming in them suddenly. "He screamed your name when he fucked me."

Obi-Wan's breath caught in his throat, and a shudder wracked him. Oh, Force... how badly he needed to believe....

Curt's voice was low and wistful, matching Obi-Wan's in intensity, its ragged edge dangerous. "He knew we were twins or whatever the hell it is the minute he saw me, oh yeah. I could feel his eyes and I knew he wanted me so bad he could taste it. He didn't much care who I was and he didn't want to think about who I wasn't. I didn't know I was a stand-in till it was done, didn't know we were the same till you popped out of thin air, but who gives a shit, right? A man like that doesn't come along too often... I just wish it had been me he wanted."

Obi-Wan shivered, horrified and intrigued at once. "It was," he whispered, grief threaded in his voice.

"I don't think so." Curt shook his head, gazing at Obi-Wan for a long moment, his eyes darkening with desire. His tongue slicked his lips suddenly. "Why don't you do it, kid? Come over here and see if you can take what he left on me. Taste him on me. Feel him in me." Curt's free hand slipped into the back of his trousers, stroking himself, his eyes narrow, the makeup startling on him. "Or are you gonna stay his little unfuckable virgin angel forever?"

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, teeth moving to savage his lower lip for a moment of agonized indecision.

He stepped forward.

Curt was sticky with sweat and oil, dirt smeared over his body. Obi-Wan's stomach turned at the thought of kissing him, tasting that, but Curt laughed softly and fell on the bed, rolling to his stomach with feline grace, offering the join of neck and shoulder. A crease drew between Obi-Wan's brows as he bent forward, unable to resist what he saw there. A rose blush of blood dappled the pale skin.

It was a fresh love bite. Qui-Gon's.

Lust hammered through Obi-Wan with that sudden knowledge, singing with the blood in his veins, a deafening tide in his ears, and he sank down on Curt, his mouth sealing over the spot as though he could suck Qui-Gon's touch from his double's salty skin.

"That's it." Curt's voice was soft, almost dreamy. "That's the last place he kissed me." The lithe body shifted luxuriously under Obi-Wan. "Come on, let's go outside," he murmured. "Where we can see the sky together."

Obi-Wan let Curt up and followed him, half mesmerized by the shifting lines of the other's... of his own... body. Curt paused to shrug out of his leather pants and threw them aside at the door. Obi-Wan hesitated to step out into the open, but Curt was still moving, and he slipped in behind, darting for the concealing shadow of the woods.

Qui-Gon was near, he could sense it. Looking for him. Looking for them. The training bond drew him to Obi-Wan inexorably in spite of his padawan's shields. There wasn't much time. Obi-Wan felt his jaw clench. Very well... if that was to be the way of it, then... he reinforced his shielding as completely as possible, moving up behind Curt as they stepped into a clearing under blown veils of cloud and dazzling blue sky. Obi-Wan lengthened his stride and caught the other boy's hips, pulling his double against him. "Right here, Curt," he breathed, and nuzzled a kiss against his double's ear. "Show me how to do what you do."

Curt half-turned back to him, his smile a flash of white. He dropped his head back to take a tiny lick at Obi-Wan's face. "I knew you had it in you, Obi-Wan," he said, then reached back to pull the Jedi's hips roughly against his.

Obi-Wan let his hands slide around Curt's waist, feeling the lingering slickness on his body. Curt caught his wrist, drawing him around and forward, raising his hands to Obi-Wan's shoulders, lifting the padawan braid in his hand, letting it slide over the deep V between thumb and forefinger.

"You want me to show you what he did with me... what he wanted to do with you." Curt's voice was oddly tender. Obi-Wan bit his lip and nodded, half shamed.

"First, he kissed me." Curt leaned forward, pushing Obi-Wan to his knees gently, until his hips were on his heels, and then joining him without sinking so far, hips straight. "Like this." His hand slid behind Obi-Wan's neck and he lifted the other's chin with his thumb, dragging Obi-Wan's mouth up to his own.

He devoured Obi-Wan with soft, seeking kisses that gradually grew desperate, tasting, plunging, exploring. Obi-Wan shuddered, falling into the fantasy, the close contact brushing his mind against Curt's, enhancing the moment with sensual memory. Obi-Wan could almost feel the long silky wings of hair brushing his face and throat, and he whimpered, struggling for more.

Curt laughed softly. "That's it," he whispered. "I knew you couldn't be as cold as you try to act." Obi-Wan silenced him, reaching up and sliding his fingers into Curt's hair, bringing the kiss together again, and Curt obliged him eagerly.

And then there it was. The spike and surge of irresistible desire. Curt sensed it and pulled Obi-Wan closer, sinking to press his hips forward so that his erection pressed against Obi-Wan's own. And suddenly the kiss wasn't about a fantasy of Qui-Gon anymore; it was about Obi-Wan and the man in his arms, and his right to be what Qui-Gon's silent sternness had never permitted.

Obi-Wan slid his hands to Curt's taut shoulders, enjoying the rippling of the compact muscles, less developed than his own, but lithe and feline beneath his palms. "Are you going to do that all night, or are you going to have me?" Obi-Wan invited, voice sultry, and pulled Curt hard against him, flicking his tongue out to lick the thin lips. He slid his knees apart, his spine curving inward, hands going behind Curt's neck. Dropping backward suddenly, he pulled his double down atop him, wrapping his legs around the tight ass, trapping them together, tumbling them through the silky carpet of grass.

"Any way you want it," Curt laughed, biting at his jaw. Obi-Wan nuzzled into the rasp of stubble. He arched, hard and high enough to lift the other man, moaning aloud as Curt's skilled hand curled around his hardness. Obi-Wan twisted, moving to bite his way down Curt's shoulder, then licking and nipping his ribs. The other man gasped, but let Obi-Wan shift, understanding what he wanted, guiding his hips and knees until they settled over him.

Matching bodies, legs, and torsos; a perfect fit. Obi-Wan felt Curt clasp him between both hands, felt himself guided into a warm, soft mouth, a wicked tongue dancing over him, and he groaned aloud, letting a shudder run through him, then bent his head, imitating those darting licks and caresses. He knew quite well what pleased the body under him, and he exploited the knowledge, was rewarded with Curt's own muffled moaning. Obi-Wan clenched his hips, moving gently, and Curt opened, angling his head, letting him fuck his willing, hungry mouth.

Obi-Wan tilted his own head forward and surged over Curt down to the root of his erection, feeling crisp hair tickle his nose. Curt jerked, rolling them over again, melded bodies gleaming in the sun, thrashing, groaning...

Obi-Wan withdrew and teased Curt slowly, dropping light kisses on the straining penis, nipping and stroking with teeth and tongue, devouring the pleasure he gave and received. After a few minutes Curt collapsed, moaning, letting it be done to him, his arms stretching over his head luxuriantly.

"Ohhhh, that's good," Curt groaned. "Thought you never did this."

"What made you so sure?" Obi-Wan's voice was as mild as his master's might have been. He stopped, though, rising to his knees, shaking the braid back over his shoulder with a casual toss of his head, inhaling and exhaling slowly, luxuriantly.

"Fuck me, Curt," Obi-Wan said, his eyes smoldering down at that mirror image of himself. "Take me the way he took you."

Oh, he wasn't ready for this, not at all... but the sunlight was molten in dark honey hair, and Curt's eyes were almost midnight with desire, and Obi-Wan could feel it too, radiant waves of lust rolling off him, and he opened himself to them, let them fill him. Deliberately he let them into the quiet places he had shut away deep within himself and hidden from the light of day ever since he first realized his desire for his master.

He let himself be caught against that lean, sensual body, melting back into it, savoring the touches of Curt's hair, teeth, and tongue on his neck and shoulders. The other boy held his hips, steadying him, and Obi-Wan gazed up into the brilliant sun with heavy-lidded eyes, letting one hand rise to run over his chest in a slow, deliberate self-caress. His mouth fell open, his breath beginning to come in deep, heavy gasps. He dampened his lower lip with his tongue.

A hand closed over his penis, and he circled his hips, pumping into it gently for a moment. "He's watching us," Curt hissed, a tone of pleased amusement in his voice.

Obi-Wan jerked hard, shying from the gaze he couldn't let himself feel, but Curt held him firmly. "Don't think." Curt's voice was taut with desire, hypnotic and melodic, like rough velvet. "Don't let him stop you now." His double's hand went to his nape and pressed him forward.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and closed his mind, trembling, and he was bent forward and pushed into the waiting pillow of his crossed arms. He shifted his hips, parting his legs, and Curt knelt behind him, a soft exultant laugh in his throat.

"Doesn't he think you'll do it? Doesn't he think you want it, want him?" Curt's voice was soft and gentle. "Let him watch and learn." Obi-Wan's teeth sank into his lower lip. All he let himself know was Curt behind him, palms on the inside of Obi-Wan's thighs, urgently positioning his knees. He heard the other man spit, felt it slicked onto him, into him. He hissed at the intrusion, then involuntarily arched back into it, back bowing high like a cat's.

His double knew more of pleasure than Obi-Wan had ever dreamed, one hand curled tight on his penis, the other tormenting him from the inside with pulsing explosions of fire. He heard his own low, growling moans as he shoved back onto the teasing fingers, and Curt's satisfied sigh as he removed them and replaced them with something more urgent.

Curt's memories were inescapable, the similarity of their minds attuning them to telepathy, and as the other man thrust into him, Obi-Wan was aware of his memories, aware of Curt doing this to Qui-Gon and receiving it in return. Pain sizzled faintly in the back of his mind, overlaid by layers of memory, pleasure, and the inescapable awareness that somewhere his Master's blue eyes watched this, furious, chastened, aroused.

Obi-Wan turned from them, deliberately, focusing on the man who was having him, accepting and devouring the fierceness of the forces that drove Curt Wild, feeling them awaken his own tightly repressed needs and desires.

Curt was ready, on the verge, and Obi-Wan tightened on him, bringing him off almost immediately, eager to move on to the next phase. His lover slid out of him, backing away, and Obi-Wan pushed himself up into a crouch, rounding on him, fire and promise in his eyes.

Curt's lips curled very slightly, his eyes amused, almost fond, almost vulnerable. Obi-Wan leaned in and took a long kiss, sucking and biting his double's lips. Irresistible, and he would have this, it was all his, all theirs, no one could take it from him, deny it to him, tell him it wasn't prudent or permitted. There was only hot willing flesh and that odd affinity that had sparked between them from the beginning.

When they finished Curt led him by the hand, unresisting and shy, from the clearing, and they showered together, which Obi-Wan thought was probably the best idea for all concerned, since Curt seemed to care very little about actually getting clean. He liked to be touched though, and Obi-Wan washed him, washed them, carefully. It took a long time, and the loss of hot water finally drove them out, lean bodies shivering in tandem. Curt tossed Obi-Wan a pair of jeans and put on some of his own.

Obi-Wan watched openly, amazed, as Curt moved, sexual energy still pulsating from even his most casual gestures. Putting on the jeans, snugging them against his firm, slim hips as he drew them up and casually buttoned the waistband.... Could he look like that? Obi-Wan's mouth was dry. It was hard to believe that his lover was, in a real way, himself.

"You move like you're ready to fight," Curt commented slyly, and Obi-Wan realized he'd spoken aloud. "I move like I want to fuck." He turned, zipping up the jeans, his pelvis angled forward provocatively. Obi-Wan nodded, lips opening to speak and then closing reluctantly as Curt shifted his weight to one heel.

"Do you ever get enough?" Obi-Wan suddenly asked. "Ever not want it?"

"Stupid question," Curt laughed. "Come on, let's get you fucked up. I got a gig later."

Getting fucked up, Obi-Wan discovered, consisted of imbibing an alarming variety of consciousness-altering substances. Cautiously he refused all except the most familiar: alcohol. He could be sure that it, at least, was not instantly addictive or prone to cause permanent psychological changes. Curt seemed content to let Obi-Wan stick to beer. He sprawled on the dirty mattress, drowsing until the accumulation of depressants in his system pulled him into unconsciousness.

For his part, Obi-Wan barely noticed his companion's state, using the beer to help him set aside his growing realization that Qui-Gon had watched him have sex with Curt. Watched, and done nothing to intervene. Even now, he was conspicuously absent. Obi-Wan felt his lips thin and harden, and he took another swig of the foul liquid, feeling the glow in his stomach.

Qui-Gon Jinn found himself lingering outside the grimy trailer, ignoring stares from suspicious eyes, not really able to care what anyone thought at seeing him there. He was still in shock.

Together, they had been two peas in a pod. One sheerly, aggressively sensual, the other... the other, purely beautiful, stunning in unaccustomed passion. Force. The image of them entwined... it had nearly caused Qui-Gon's heart and certain other organs to burst, even as it enraged him, shamed him, tortured him.

He had never thought Obi-Wan capable of such a thing, such a casual liaison. Never thought of his padawan wanting and accepting a man, particularly not such a one as Curt Wild-- but Obi-Wan had done it for spite, had he not? Purely for spite, for vengeance, to get even with Qui-Gon for his earlier indiscretion....

His fist clenched tight, knuckles whitening, teeth setting in impotent fury. If Obi-Wan's first lover was to have been a man... then by rights, it should have been him.

But his regrets came too late. What Obi-Wan had given Curt Wild, Qui-Gon could never have back, just as Obi-Wan could never have what Qui-Gon had given Curt. The fact that neither of them had known the other wanted it made little difference.

Defeated, he sank down onto the steps of the trailer, slumped forward with total disregard of dignity or pride. Those things mattered so little when parts of his universe he had not even known mattered at all had turned inside out. The passion, the fire, the freedom -- he had never known Obi-Wan possessed such rawness within his soul. Not knowing, he had very nearly extinguished those embers inadvertently under the smothering weight of his Jedi philosophy.

And now, just as he discovered those embers flaring to life, he had lost them to another's touch.

The trailer door clicked behind him, but he did not move. Soft footsteps padded down the steps; from the corner of his eye, he saw bare feet pausing beside him. Familiar feet, but that meant less than it once had.

A few more steps, and he felt the warmth of his padawan settling next to him. He had always taken Obi-Wan's presence at his shoulder for granted, until Obi-Wan had gotten lost. If only he could be sure he had found him.

"We must return to Coruscant," he said at last, falling back into the old pattern of command as a last resort to avoid emotional connection.


His head turned sharply before he had even fully processed the insubordination. "No?" he repeated, dumbfounded.

Obi-Wan met his gaze briefly, then looked out into the woods. Toward their link with home, Qui-Gon thought with a sudden pang of longing for the familiar. "I'm not ready. I have more to learn here. Things you won't teach me."

A sharp empathic pain in his gut told him the remark had been meant to wound. "We have duties to attend," he said, voice colder than he wanted it to be, from long habit.

"Duty!" Obi-Wan spat. "Is that truly the only thing important to you? Is that why you came after me? Is that the only thing you care about?"

He started to rise, but Qui-Gon's hand snapped out to seize his arm and stop him. "No," he said with a low growl. Obi-Wan's eyes widened, startled and dark with another, indefinable, reaction. "I care about you. Don't you want me to?"

They remained there, Obi-Wan half-crouched before him, for a long moment. "Yes," Obi-Wan whispered at last. A flare of triumph and hope shot through Qui-Gon even as Obi-Wan rose, pulling out of Qui-Gon's grip and taking the steps with a single leap back into the shelter of the shoddy trailer.

Even now, after everything... perhaps not too late after all.

Qui-Gon's meditations were interrupted suddenly by the click of a latch and the sudden banging of a screen. He straightened, keeping his arms firmly placed in his sleeves.

The two men trotted agilely down the rickety stairs, and for a moment in the gleam of late afternoon sun, he wasn't sure which of them was his padawan. The relaxed, casual gait of both, the tight pants they wore... one in black leather, the other in faded denim jeans and short tight matching jacket, low-cut, pointed boots... the padawan braid gave Obi-Wan away, flashing in the sun.

They roared away in Curt's battered vehicle, and Qui-Gon took a moment to let himself into the trailer and gather Obi-Wan's things before he fell in behind them to follow them to the concert.

It was dark when Curt stepped onto stage to perform, and Qui-Gon found himself grateful for the cover of dimness. He tried to lose himself in the performance, as he had done the previous night, but instead he found his eyes drawn irresistibly to Obi-Wan. His Obi-Wan, his padawan. Standing in the crowd, eyes fixed on Curt Wild like a worshipper might gaze on an idol. Learning those lessons he thought he needed, the lessons Qui-Gon had failed to teach him.

If only he knew. Compared to Curt, Obi-Wan Kenobi needed no glitter. He already shone like the sun.

Qui-Gon swallowed a heavy lump in his throat.

Obi-Wan was dancing, buoyed by the excitement of the crowd, but he held back on the fringes, and Qui-Gon could see him clearly, could flicker his eyes between the two young men. The similarities, the differences... heartbreaking, and heartwarming. And oh, Obi-Wan's trim young body, highlighted by the tight denim jeans as it never was by Jedi tunics and leggings... the raw, unashamed sensuality Curt had helped him unleash in himself....

He remembered how his padawan had arched and gasped under Curt's skilled hands, abandoning himself to passion. Golden light shining on his skin, the healthy glow of him. Such hidden depths in Obi-Wan, so much of Curt that had lain hidden in him, shy, fearful of Qui-Gon's condemnation.

No longer.

Qui-Gon glided forward, noiseless though none could have heard him over Curt's frenzied song, and slid his arms gently around Obi-Wan's bare ribs, big hands clasping over his padawan's taut, rippled belly. "Please come away, my padawan," he breathed in the young man's ear, a soft plea. "Let it be. His mind is so broken, he will never be sure we were real...."

He felt a shiver course through Obi-Wan, felt a warm drop fall onto his hand. Obi-Wan blinked rapidly, then took a shaky breath. "Master...."

"Shhhh." He drew Obi-Wan back, steered him toward the shadows until they were hidden from the crowd. Then he turned Obi-Wan and pulled him close, tucking Obi-Wan's head beneath his chin and waiting until he felt his embrace returned.

"Master," Obi-Wan whispered again. Soft lips moved against Qui-Gon's throat in a tiny, hesitant kiss, testing him and his desire. Desire he had hidden from his padawan for too long; desire Obi-Wan had suppressed within himself for far too long, but which now trickled steadily into the natural bond between them.

Tentatively, Obi-Wan slid his body against Qui-Gon. Another test. Qui-Gon wrapped an arm around Obi-Wan's waist, pulled the younger man's hips to his and let him feel how real Qui-Gon's desire was. Obi-Wan inhaled sharply, and Qui-Gon felt the answering surge of arousal against his thigh.

The music from the now-hidden stage stopped for a moment, and Qui-Gon could hear only his own and Obi-Wan's ragged breathing. Obi-Wan's arms wrapped around Qui-Gon's waist, body pressed close, breath hot against his ear, but still Qui-Gon felt a distance that should not have been there. A vague dissatisfaction, a lacking, as though his lungs were not drawing quite enough air. Only when another small wave of longing shivered its way through the Force did Qui-Gon understand what he needed. Then he reached for his padawan with mind as well as with body.

His seeking took the path most open to him: their training bond, which he had followed across a dozen worlds, his only constant, however tense or faint, during this ordeal. Obi-Wan gasped, then reached back. They clung to each other for a long time, rocked by the unaccustomed flood of emotion trying to crowd into the suddenly fragile link between them. The normal bond between master and apprentice was not meant to carry such intensity of feeling, Qui-Gon realized even as he tried to lose himself in Obi-Wan as he had never been able to before.

His knees weakened dangerously; Obi-Wan was almost a dead weight against him, and the need to twine himself tightly around his padawan was becoming overwhelming. With an effort of will almost greater than he could manage, he pulled himself away from the compelling heat of Obi-Wan's body. The young man gave a grunt of protest, but stood still enough while Qui-Gon pulled off his robe and lay it upon the ground.

Then Obi-Wan stepped forward and wrapped himself around Qui-Gon again, mouth still hungry on his master's neck, and Qui-Gon embraced him gladly. Willing, wanton... so very much like Curt, but not him at all.

Obi-Wan. His own. How had he ever thought this flesh, this man, too prim and reservedly proper for him to touch?

His knees buckled finally as Obi-Wan's mouth found a particularly sweet spot, and he allowed them to sink onto his outspread robe. Obi-Wan landed half in his lap, one leg around his waist, and when Qui-Gon's hands came up to brace against Obi-Wan's shoulders, he found only hot, willing skin. The music began again, a rhythm he did not know, but felt sweep over them both with a strange familiarity. Curt sang again. For them.

He lifted his gaze to blue eyes gone black in the dim light. Obi-Wan stared at him, evaluating and coveting with equal openness. Gripping and kneading the muscles beneath the silken skin, Qui-Gon leaned slowly forward. The hypnotic gaze remained locked on him until the moment their lips touched; then the shadowed lids drifted shut as Obi-Wan gave himself over to their kiss.

Only when he probed deeply could Qui-Gon find a taint of alcohol that reminded him of the other, and even that faded quickly, until all he could taste was Obi-Wan. He groaned deeply into his padawan's - his lover's - mouth, and Obi-Wan responded by moving still closer into Qui-Gon's body.

Another pulse of lust, tempered with the deep tenderness they had always held for one another, rushed between them, opening their bond wider. They rocked together, kissing slowly, each surge of physical pleasure forcing its way between them until they were almost painfully open to each other. Qui-Gon let himself drift easily into the strange communion, buffeted by the raw sensuality and need in Obi-Wan -- more powerful than Curt Wild's, and purer, it came from love and strength rather than pain.

Obi-Wan tangled his fingers in Qui-Gon's hair, palms curving to hold his head still as the younger man pressed strong, sweet kisses to Qui-Gon's mouth. "Want you," Obi-Wan breathed against his lips with another sharp push against his body.

"Always wanted you," Qui-Gon returned with a soft gasp. He found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything except how hard he was, and how hard Obi-Wan was, and how soul-wrenchingly sweet it would be to pour himself into the warm body he held. Another rub of his erection against Obi-Wan's made his entire body convulse with need, and then he was pushing Obi-Wan over onto their makeshift blanket.

Obi-Wan lay sprawled on his back, panting, eyes glittering up at Qui-Gon with anticipation as he hastily disrobed. Laughing softly, Obi-Wan lifted his hips obligingly as Qui-Gon fumbled open the odd pants he wore, then slid them down and off his legs, leaving him naked to his master's gaze. Qui-Gon sat there beside Obi-Wan for a long moment, drinking in the sight of the body that lay open to him, fully aroused and faintly trembling in the chill air. Then he gave in to his need to touch, running his hand over Obi-Wan from shoulder to thigh in a shaky caress. Obi-Wan drew a sharp breath.

Arching the slightest bit, Obi-Wan took Qui-Gon's hand and held it flat against his stomach as he rolled onto his side, his back to Qui-Gon. Without protest or thought, Qui-Gon moved with him and settled against his back with a sense of homecoming. He closed his eyes as Obi-Wan guided his hand in slow, expanding circles over the sleek muscle of the younger man's stomach, memorizing every inch. Briefly, he buried his face in the crook of Obi-Wan's neck, inhaled deeply, then tasted the damp skin along his shoulder, indulging every sense.

Obi-Wan sighed and pushed back against him, tension burning along their link. Qui-Gon felt the silent demand for more, for what would lead them both to climax and relief. He groaned his acquiescence helplessly and felt Obi-Wan stretch, hand leaving Qui-Gon's to reach for the spot where Qui-Gon had piled their clothing. When Obi-Wan lay back, he pressed a small container into Qui-Gon's hand. Fumbling it open, Qui-Gon smoothed the slick oil over his fingers; Obi-Wan must have taken it from the trailer.

"Don't worry," Obi-Wan said over his shoulder. "He had quite a lot of it." His humor was clear even through the urgency in their bond, and Qui-Gon huffed his amusement softly against Obi-Wan's shoulder before sliding his fingers in where more of him longed to be.

They entered easily; Obi-Wan was still loose from his earlier experience, and in contrast to his previous jealousy, Qui-Gon found himself aroused almost to orgasm by the very thought of it. Obi-Wan squirmed and made a frantic noise, prompting Qui-Gon to withdraw his fingers and finish his preparations hastily.

He wrapped his arm around Obi-Wan's waist once more and threw one leg over Obi-Wan's thigh until he found the alignment he needed. Obi-Wan tangled their legs together even as Qui-Gon made his first firm thrust, joining their bodies. Even stretched by Curt's considerable size, Obi-Wan was deliciously tight around him as Qui-Gon sank his first few needy inches into his lover. "Obi-Wan... my Obi-Wan," he said hoarsely, beginning to rock them gently together.

"Yes," Obi-Wan said simply and matched Qui-Gon's movement, pushing back with each thrust to draw Qui-Gon deeper.

Qui-Gon panted into Obi-Wan's hair when his hips finally pressed against Obi-Wan's buttocks, his length sheathed fully in the torturously soft passage. Moaning restlessly, Obi-Wan moved Qui-Gon's slick hand to his own hard flesh. Qui-Gon closed his fist around it, tightly enough to give pleasure while allowing Obi-Wan to move at will, the pace of their coupling growing more frenzied.

Body still wrapped around his apprentice, Qui-Gon thrust harder until the leverage wasn't enough. Instinctively he rolled their joined bodies forward until Obi-Wan lay face down, arms flung out over his head. Qui-Gon groaned with relief as he pulled back, then sank his full length smoothly into Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan shuddered beneath him, then began pushing back again, forcing himself and Qui-Gon up as he straightened his braced arms. "Tell me," he demanded from between gritted teeth, muscles shaking with the strain, hips pushing back until he forced Qui-Gon's knees to support their combined weight.

The words themselves made little sense, but their meaning was clear in the maelstrom of Force-borne emotion raging between them. "Always you. Only you," Qui-Gon gasped. He pulled Obi-Wan fully into his lap, his lover's legs splaying to either side of Qui-Gon's knees as he grunted with the increasing force of their thrusting. "You I held, you I saw, you I wanted... beneath me, inside me... you, Obi-Wan."

"Only me," Obi-Wan whispered; then his head lolled back against Qui-Gon's shoulder, eyes closed and face slack with relief as he finally came. Qui-Gon pumped the shuddering flesh in his fist until Obi-Wan's entire body went limp, then released it. Both arms now tight around Obi-Wan's waist, Qui-Gon let the last pulses of his lover's orgasm bring his own arousal to a peak as he thrust frantically until completion washed over him. He groaned his joy aloud and blindly kissed the spot behind Obi-Wan's ear where the padawan braid began, hips still jerking slightly as he spent the last few surges of his pleasure deep within Obi-Wan's body.

Even his knees could not hold them, then, as the tension drained from him and left him as boneless as his padawan. They slumped forward again, flesh still joined, face down on the ground. Obi-Wan groped with one hand until he found Qui-Gon's fingers and twined them with his own. Then they lay still save for their labored breathing as the newly-enhanced bond between them shook, then steadied itself in strength, in the aftermath of their lovemaking.

After a while Qui-Gon groaned again, lifting himself up enough to withdraw. He felt Obi-Wan's mental brush of thanks as his weight left the younger man. Qui-Gon smiled and pressed a gentle kiss between Obi-Wan's shoulder blades; then, after a moment, he touched his lips again to the small scar a few inches away.

"Master," Obi-Wan mumbled drowsily as Qui-Gon managed to get himself into a sitting position, then tugged Obi-Wan up into his arms.

"Padawan." He kissed the young man tenderly, then held him close, enjoying the contact of their sated bodies. The music had long since stopped; footsteps and murmuring voices provided a softer backdrop of sound, but none came near to them.

Obi-Wan nuzzled against Qui-Gon's neck after a time, then sighed with reluctance before sitting up in his master's embrace. "We should go, shouldn't we?"

Qui-Gon nodded and kissed him again. "Duty awaits." He smiled faintly and brushed his padawan's lip with his thumb.

His apprentice nodded soberly and started to pull away to stand up, but Qui-Gon caught his hand before he gained his feet, bringing him back to kneel at eye level with Qui-Gon. "Obi-Wan... Padawan...." He hesitated, seeking the words he needed. Obi-Wan waited patiently, gaze fixed attentively on Qui-Gon as it always was - the only thing new was the rush of love and encouragement Obi-Wan sent to him through their deepened bond. "If I have held you back, held you down... caused you fear... if my harshness has kept you from expressing the beauty inside you... then I must beg your forgiveness, my love."

Obi-Wan regarded him for a moment in silence, then leaned in to touch Qui-Gon's lips fleetingly, solemnly, with his own. "We walk our own path as Jedi, my Master. You taught me as you must; that you could not teach me this is no failing of yours. The Force has made it right."

He sought the Force itself for the truth of Obi-Wan's words; it hummed around them and through them, filled with their joy, the source of their strength. Qui-Gon bowed his head briefly in acceptance, then looked again to his apprentice with a small smile playing at his mouth. "I would, however, continue the teaching now that it has begun."

Eyes sparkling, Obi-Wan chewed on his lower lip for a moment before grinning widely. "Oh, Master, I think there is a great deal more we have to teach each other." He kissed Qui-Gon one more time, with passion, before rising and holding out his hand to his master. "Now, let's go home."