Characters-Rating: Q/O - R
Category: PoV, PWP, Challengefic
Summary: Obi-Wan contemplates a garment.
Spoilers: No
Series: No, standalone, complete.
Archive: m_a, SWAL, and WWOMB - anybody else just ask.
Feedback: YES please! It keeps my plot bunnies fed and healthy.
Notes: Some little time ago, a challenge was raised on M_A to
dress the Boys in 'anything other than thin sleep pants.'
Shortly thereafter I woke up from a pleasant dream with this
image in my head of a hand, and a hem, and, well, you'll see.
Thanks go to Ruth for telling me it was done already, and to
post it, now.
Disclaimer: George Lucas is The Man and owns everything... No
harm, no money, no foul.
The Sleeping Tunic
Year of the Republic 24,979
Gail Riordan, 2000
wander@dnai.com
Qui-Gon has this tunic, you see, that he wears to sleep in.
That tunic seduced me.
It's not much to look at - just a linen t-tunic, sort of cream
colored, with a band of deep blue at the neck and hem and
sleeves. (What that blue does to his eyes!) It's old and frayed
and thin with wear, and so soft! Linen gets that way, there's
nothing else quite like it. Just looking at the thing it's hard
to see how it could seduce anyone. Yes, well, it's short, about
mid thigh, and the sleeves come to mid forearm. The blue is a
nice color even though it's faded in spots, and the keyhole
slit at the neck has possibilities, but really, by itself, it's
just a tunic.
Oh, all right. Yes, even by itself it's still his tunic,
and it holds his shape and a hint of his scent even fresh from
the laundry, but it's what it does when it's on him that really
does it. The way it molds to his form, falls from the points of
his shoulders, outlines the jut of his hip, the wonderful curve
of his ass, hints at other delights.
(I love his ass. I think about filling my hands with those firm
globes as we move together, imagining the way they would fit
between my hipbones, cradling my cock, watching all that power
and beauty flexing before me, neatly encased in his well-cut
leggings, or peeping out from just under the hem of his
sleeping tunic.... But I get ahead of myself.)
This tunic shows off some of the most unexpectedly attractive
parts of him. Like his forearms, which are usually covered by
two, if not three layers of sleeve. These sleeves are short and
wide, and emphasize all his lean, strong swordsman's muscles,
the neat economy of his wrists. (For all he's a big man, he's
very finely made.) I love the way the edge will slide up,
wrinkling in folds to reveal the interesting crease of his
elbow. My fingers want to creep inside and explore the soft
places hidden up under his upper arms - he is surprisingly
sensitive there.
The sleeve hems are good, but the lower hem.... Oh, my. Well
above the knee, highlighting the corded silk and steel of his
thighs, his honed strength, witness to his stamina.... The hem
often rides up as he turns in his sleep, displaying ... other
assets. The line of that hem gets me every time.
The neckline gets me too. That deep blue that makes his eyes
even bluer and turns the rich cream of his skin into something
gleaming and magical. The way the edge just outlines the inner
curve of his collarbones, turns on the points and the slit
frames the hollow of his throat, deep and sweet, and teases me
with a glimpse of pectoral and breastbone.
I can see the shadow of his nipples through the worn linen,
rosy against the paleness of his skin. My thumbs itch to rub
and circle and fondle them through the cloth. I want to make
them pebble and peak. I want to leave tantalizing wet
transparent circles to tease and brush at them as we go on to
other things.
I dream about that tunic. Of him in that tunic. Of me making
love to him in that tunic.
The image of my hand, sliding, oh so slowly up his long thigh,
easing up under the soft, frayed edge, searching out hidden
treasure, coaxing fire to life, wicked and waxed in old, worn
linen.
I want to turn down the corner of the neck, to lick and kiss
and suckle at his collarbone, leave him with a passionmark that
will not fade for days (peeping just under the edge of his
undertunic.) A shuddering delight, feeling him harden
wonderfully through the cloth, pressed tight against my thigh
when I do it.
I think of the cool/warm feel of the fabric rucked and bunched
against our bellies as we grind our groins together, the fine
weave smooth under my palms as I sweep my hands down the
landscape of his back and grab and knead and squeeze those
tempting, tight cheeks.
Now I dream of the edge of the hem brushing against my back,
caressing my ass as he takes me, enters me, fills me to the
brim, the linen of my undone loinwrap twisted against my balls,
wrapped in his fist around my aching cock. I have bathed
carefully, ecstatically, and oiled myself, ready for him. So
ready for him.
Last night, you see, I lay curled beside him in this huge bed
in the room that the Nuari have given us. He was wearing that
tunic, and the blue of his eyes, the warmth of his nearness and
the temptation of the hem seduced me. So I touched and talked
and told him about that tunic, my dreams of him in that tunic.
He, in turn, told me some of his. And, well....
Tonight, he is wearing it again, and the twinkle in his eye
says all my dreams and his are about to come true again, more
and even better than I imagined.
Force, I love him. But it was the tunic that did me in.
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