Author's Home Page: https://www.squidge.org/~ndannais
Archive: Master and Apprentice, anywhere else, please ask
Pairing: Q/O
Rating: R
Category: POV, PWP
Summary: Obi-Wan muses about his feelings for his master.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone, much less these fine
characters--although I own a couple of action figures of them,
does that count? Probably not. Oh well, I refuse to make any
money off them in any event, so please don't sue me.
Notes: I don't seem to be able to write anything long these
days, so here's another short one. Thank you to Becky and my
favorite lurker for the quick reads!
I want him.
There are times when I imagine myself grabbing him and kissing
him senseless so that he doesn't even think to protest when I
drag him to the bedroom. Or the couch. Or the floor. Sometimes
we'll come to an impasse while sparring, and stare at each
other, lightsabers clashing, and I'll want to throw the 'sabers
aside and rip at his clothes.
Of course, it's easy to dream about such things. But to
actually do them...well, that's another story.
Just the fact that he's my master would be enough to make this
difficult. I may be well past the awkward flirting stage when
it comes to my peers, but there is a certain awkward factor
involved in hitting on one's own master that cannot be overcome
without first...well, hitting on one's master.
Most every padawan deals with fantasies about his or her
master at some point. But this has gone way beyond such
infatuations. Those were the fumbling fantasies of a boy at 15,
16. These are the desires of a grown man. At the age of 21,
there are few planets in the Republic who would argue my right
to consent to anything legal.
But then Qui-Gon Jinn has never been ruled by the laws of any
planet.
Which makes things even more difficult for me. Not only is he
my master, he is the great, legendary Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn.
Rogue, rebel, bane of half the Council's existence, and
arguably the most effective Jedi of our time.
Not to mention a major pain in my ass.
Won't listen to anyone, least of all me. Always following his
'instincts'--leaving me to follow him into the mess his
instincts often create. Never wrong, always right, stubborn as
a bantha, passionate about his beliefs, impulsive, headstrong,
fiery and definitely opinionated.
I want him.
I want him so badly I can taste it. I can imagine the way his
skin would taste on my tongue. His neck would be salty from the
heat and sweat all that hair seems to conjure out of nowhere.
His shoulder would be softer, sweeter, more like the jovia
plant they use to make the soap at the Temple. Ah, but his
chest and stomach, they would be sweeter still for the sounds
he would make as I bit and licked my way down to the part of
him that holds my attention most often at times like these.
And how would that taste? Like a bitter wine that you can
never get enough of, but is all the more enjoyable for the
rarity of the pleasure. Warm and delicious...and addictive.
If I could have him, the tips of my fingers would glide down
his neck, feeling the skin roughened by all of the causes
fought for and justices righted. As they slid across his collar
bone and down his back, they would notice the silkier feel of
skin long hidden under the tunics and robes he wear that
signify his duty to every creature in the Force. He would
flinch as my fingers crossed his sides to his flat stomach and
dipped into his navel, and I would feel the raised bumps all
over his skin in reaction to that touch. My touch.
I want him.
I want to feel the scratchy hairs at the base of his stomach,
to stroll through them with my fingers and seek out the heat
and power of the shaft nestled in their depths. To feel it
harden in my grasp, to lick and suck until it strains, and to
feel it inside me, sliding and straining and exploding, filling
me, driving out the emptiness that currently exists in the
place where he belongs.
I would run my hands along the muscled flanks I've often
admired when granted the privilege of that view, feeling the
strength there, restrained, but always there, ready to move
wherever needed. I'd move behind him, tracing the line down his
back with my tongue, dipping lower, a warm, wet line into the
crevice, down to the most intimate spot he has to protect, and
invade like a warrior claiming his territory. Teasing with my
tongue, just a precursor to the final battle when I drive
myself home into him, surrounded in that indescribable
tightness that drowns out the rest of the galaxy and narrows my
existence to nothing more than myself and him.
And then, when it was over, we would collapse onto the nearest
surface and breathe, perhaps even sharing breath in an attempt
to bring ourselves back into the world around us slowly,
without crashing back all at once. One look, that would be all
it would take, no words would be needed. We would both know.
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