Archive: Yes to StarWarsfic, M_A, or anyone else who might want
it.
Notes: I don't use betas. :( Any mistakes are solely my fault
and the fault of my *#^&@ spellcheck. ** is used for
emphasis, // for thought. Any weird characters should be hunted
down and killed.
Spoilers: No.
Summary: Qui-Gon discovers what his Padawan has done, and
reacts.
{Ooh, I resisted this - it's too late to start something,
especially since I'll have to stay up and finish it in a chunk
- but the call of this romance was too strong. . .}
"Orange"
by MonaR.
monaram@yahoo.com
He's heavier than I remembered.
I haven't carried him since he was a child, and he hasn't been
a child for a long time. Sometimes, I have to wonder if he was
*ever* a child. He just looks so young, lying on my bed; eyes
closed and body limp, he presents a different picture than the
sexual creature I know him to be.
He still hasn't opened his eyes. I didn't expect to find him
unconscious, although I could feel the rising panic in him long
before I reached his room. I must wake him, soon, and calm him,
let him know that he's safe. He's with me.
Finally, I stroke my hands over his forehead, over the soft
brush of his hair, and he opens his eyes. He looks terrified;
perhaps he's still disoriented and doesn't realize that it's
me.
Or perhaps he does.
Instantly, he's off the bed and on his knees before me, head
bowed, giving me my due as his Master. I lay my palm on his
head, giving him a small benediction; I can feel the tremors in
his body as I do so, but he turns towards my caress. I raise
him up, my hand under his chin, and lay one finger over his
lips. I speak before he can say a word of explanation.
"Show me."
His eyes never leave mine as he disrobes. His cloak falls in a
dark puddle of cloth at his feet, and he tugs off his boots,
one at a time. Then the trousers fall, and I see it. He takes
little time or care unwrapping the bandage, just tears at it
wildly, so that I may bear witness to his freshly-formed wound.
I am taken aback by the sight of it; although I felt what he
was doing as surely as if he had applied the rush of heat to my
own body, to *see* it is something else: a bright, broken,
radiant mark on that clean thigh. It stand out like a beacon,
and draws me in like the flame that is my Padawan.
Before I know what is happening, I am on my knees in front of
him, as if our actual positions are reversed and he is *my*
god. How have I pretended up to this point that it is not true?
I unclench my hands and touch him, clutch his thighs so hard
that I will leave bruises - fleeting, transitory marks of my
hold on to him, nothing like what he has done to himself. I
should be furious; he has defied me with this act, denied my
possession of him and his body completely. I should throw him
out, renounce him, betray him.
I press my mouth to the wound, rubbing my dry lips over it,
then the edge of my teeth. He moans over me, the pain palpable
in his laboured breaths; I ignore him, and continue to make
love to this beauty-mark, lapping at it over and over with my
tongue, cleaning and laving and tasting the scorched flesh. His
cock lengthens and hardens as I perform my ministrations, heat
striking against the side of my face and my ear, but I ignore
that, too. When he finally dares to touch *me*, his hands
tangle in my hair. I don't know if he's pulling me to him or
pushing me away, warning me or urging me on, but when he comes
I can feel the wet heat in my hair and on my neck, soaking into
my tunic. My hands on his thighs are no longer enough to hold
him up, and he falls back on the bed, boneless, still shaking
from his climax. I crawl up after him, and lie on my side, just
watching him breathe. He has finally pushed me too far.
I *will* have him.
**********
I am still fully dressed, wearing my boots and even my cloak.
He removes his tunic and when I open the folds of my cloak
before him, he presses his body full-length against mine; the
heat of him is scorching, as if he has swallowed the flame from
the brand, and it is leeching out of his skin. He cleans his
body on my clothing, rubbing sweat and come into the cloth,
letting me feel him. He's still hard; he has years of wanting
me pent up in that organ, and isn't about to let go until he's
had all he can bear, or at least all that he *thinks* he can
bear.
I rub one finger over his lips and am pleased when he opens
wide to my touch, but when I remove my hand and thrust my
tongue down his throat I think he may die. He struggles against
me, taken off-guard and desperate for air, but I have to remind
him of who we are: he may be my god, but I am his Master. I
twist his arms around his chilled, naked back, and continue to
kiss him until he stops fighting me and goes limp in my arms.
He gasps for air when I allow him to breathe again, but I don't
let him catch his breath before I am on top of him, pressing
him into the bed. I out-weigh him by enough that I could lie
still and crush him like this, and *still* I can feel his
hardness digging into my belly. I kiss him again and he submits
willingly, this time. He is beginning to learn what all of this
means.
I slide my body down the length of his, returning once again to
his wound. My beard tickles his cock as I pass, and he
twitches, his hips thrusting up involuntarily. I want to laugh
at the obviousness of his need, but I am too distracted by the
beauty of the damage that is before my eyes. I cover the mark
with my palm, close my eyes, and allow myself to once again
experience the heat of it. I draw the memories of his ritual
from his body, picking him clean of them, taking them for
myself, making them mine. He is watching me; I can feel his
eyes on me, and for once I allow him what he wants: to know me.
When I open my eyes, he is leaning on his elbows, a faint smile
on his lips. I kneel up on the bed, between his thighs, and he
moves once again into my arms. I sink my teeth into his neck,
biting him, and when he laughs I know that I am lost. The
vibrations echo from his throat into my mouth.
He does not attempt to undress me, nor to touch my skin; my
need is secondary to his own and he knows it. He thrusts up
against me, again and again, determined to come again or die
trying. He wraps his legs around my waist and pulls me down on
top of him, and suddenly I am serving his need: my weight on
him is his reward. He rubs his cock against my tunic, over and
over, and once again comes without touching himself. I wonder
how long this can last, how many times I may be able to have
him this night. I wonder if we will see daylight together, if
his ever-hard cock will be raw and bleeding by sunrise, if the
light will shatter us into dust, like two demons of the night.
The only thing I know for sure is that I want to find out.
**********
The room reeks of come and sweat - all his - when the first
light of dawn breaks into the room. I am still dressed, now
hard inside my clothes; he lies in my arms, his back to my
chest. He has pulled my robe around himself and sleeps
fitfully, moaning softly in his dreams. I am wet with him,
everywhere; the bed is ruined around us.
I cannot close my eyes until the sunlight from the window
touches us, and I know that we are still alive. I reach between
his thighs and pinch his wound to distract myself from this
waiting; he shivers but doesn't awaken. When the sun floods my
room, I undo my robe and extract myself from it; some
sentimentality makes me cover his nakedness when I leave the
bed. It is the same feeling that draws my hand to his face, and
I touch him, caress him briefly, careful not to wake him up.
I am able to close the bathroom door behind me and lock it from
the inside without making a sound. I undress in front of the
mirror, watching myself; when my clothing is off and thrown
down into the trash I can still smell him on me. Even my beard
is sticky with his come.
I turn the shower onto its hottest setting and stand underneath
it for a very long time, letting the water beat onto my back
and my thighs; then I scrub at my skin with a brush until it is
red and almost broken, and then once again with soap. I clean
my hair several times, letting the water sluice through it,
always so much hot water that never runs cold. It is one of the
small privileges of being a Jedi Master, and I have enjoyed it
so much all of these years.
It is only when I am thoroughly clean that I take my cock in my
hands, turn to face the shower spray, and jerk myself off,
quickly, methodically. I know just how much pressure it will
take to bring myself to climax; I know what images to bring to
mind - the thought of the red-hot brand touching my young
Padawan's thigh excites me so much that almost before I realize
it my come is dripping down into the drain. I scrub myself once
more and turn the shower off.
I am glad I have had the foresight to keep clean clothing in
here, for I do not trust myself to face him naked; I do not
even trust myself to go without a robe. I am clean and dry when
I unlock the bathroom door; what I don't expect to see is my
Padawan on the floor in front of me, slumped down in the
doorway, head resting on his knees, which are drawn up against
his chest. He looks up at me; when I kneel down, I can see that
his thigh is bleeding where the wound has opened from my
caresses. I swirl one fingertip in the blood and bring it to my
lips, tasting him for the first time, then take him in my arms
and carry him back to bed.
It has been a long night, and a long lesson. Today, he can
sleep in my arms while I tell him how good he has been.
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