permission to archive extended to sockii if she'd like
Wet Dreams, a Phantom Menace PWP rated NC17 for unadulterated
sex. For Laura, and Thanks to Meg, for the enthusiasm and the
inspiration, in that order. The red looks incredible on Obi
Wan, Meg, and the blue matches Qui Gon's eyes ...
It had been the mission from Hell. If the Jedi believed in
hell, and if hell was a water world.
Obi Wan Kenobi was used to politicians, used to negotiations
that took forever, used to frustration. Used to cramped
quarters, used to sharing a bed with his Master in said cramped
quarters, even used to occasionally donning native dress when
Jedi robes were considered impractical or culturally
unacceptable.
He wasn't used to being so damned seasick that all his
concentration and shielding had to be diverted to keeping his
stomach under control.
Split concentration, combined with close quarters, hot nights,
and an utter lack of other diversions, was a recipe for
disaster. The native costume didn't help matters.
The ambassadors had taken one look at their Jedi robes and
refused to have anything to do with them. Something about
ancient religions, and wizards, and gremlins, or perhaps they'd
meant grim men. It was hard to translate the dialects, at
times. Determined to do what had to be done to push the
negotiations ahead, Master Jinn and Padawan Kenobi put aside
their superstition-inducing robes and did their best to blend
in. The ambassadors were very happy to provide what they
considered appropriate clothing, dumping a double arm-load of
fabric on the single bunk in the Jedis' cabin. Qui Gon sighed
and stripped off. Obi Wan glanced up at his master, and froze.
Qui Gon looked at Obi Wan.
Obi Wan looked down, quickly, at the clothing.
"Lace?" he asked weakly.
"Lace." Qui Gon rose and moved to inspect the costumes. Obi Wan
sank back onto the bunk, and stared.
Not at the clothes.
His skin flushed, and he took a deep breath. Ignoring the roil
of his stomach, he concentrated on the heat below it, and
chanted mantras denying passion under his breath. With passion.
"And brocade. And metalwork." Qui Gon held up a doublet of sky
blue, embroidered with sweeping leaves, delicate knotwork and
eye-dizzying zig-zags of gold. In his other hand, he held a
sheer lawn shirt with full sleeves caught at the wrist, wide
lace falling from the bindings.
"Put it on." Obi Wan looked around for an instant before
realizing the words had come from him. Hurriedly, he tried to
muster a logical argument. "We must expedite the peace talks,
Master. We can't do it in our own clothes. We certainly can't
do it nude, which is what we'll be if we don't wear what they
give us. So, uhm, perhaps it would be best for the moment if
you put them on?"
Qui Gon stared at him for a moment. "Are you feeling well,
Padawan? You appear to be suffering from a fever." And you're
babbling, Obi Wan heard without it being said.
Not wanting to argue, and needing to camouflage the affects his
Master's naked form was having on his own body, Obi Wan climbed
off the bunk and determinedly reached for the second set of
clothing. "It seems the sensible thing to do, Mas-"
Yikes. Bright. The heavy fabric dragging at his hand caught his
complete attention, as it was no doubt intended to do, given
its pattern. It was deep crimson, woven in an Imperial pattern
of emerald, sapphire and pure saffron, accent threads of gold
running over and around the striking design. Black braid edged
the sides and front, framing the vivid pattern and contrasting
sharply with the pure white of the shirt given to wear under
it. Refusing to admit that he felt completely ridiculous, he
squeezed into the white leggings, stamped his feet into the
heavy black boots, and shrugged into the sheer white shirt.
Very sheer.
With no buttons.
Just lace, even wider and more ornate than that edging his
Master's shirt. It fell around his neck and down to his waist,
and fell again from his wrists over his hands, a complicated
array of threads that should have looked utterly feminine
around his hands.
Oddly enough, it didn't.
Refusing to think about that, either, he jerked the doublet
around his torso, cinching the wide black belt around his
waist, ignoring the flowing metalwork of the buckle, yanking
the pointed ends of the doublet down to pull it flat, trying
his best to ignore the naked feeling where the buttonless shirt
left him bare from the base of his throat to the belt at his
waist. Half defiant, half embarrassed, he whipped his braid
over his shoulder, squared his shoulders, and took a deep
breath.
Turning to face Qui Gon, his glare challenged his Master to
laugh, or lecture him, or do anything other than put his own
damned pirate outfit on and join his apprentice in the charade.
Qui Gon stood there and stared at him.
Dark blue eyes widened, then narrowed, and seemed to go black.
Large hands clenched into the blue fabric they still held,
kneading it, then freezing. Obi Wan watched in fascination as
his Master swallowed, then swallowed again. After what felt
like several years of being stared at like a bug under glass,
he got a little testy. He just knew Qui Gon was trying
not to laugh at him, and while he appreciated the effort,
standing here staring at one another would not get them off
this blasted water-ball any faster.
"Well?" he finally demanded when his Master continued to stand
there, silent, watching, completely still. His voice seemed to
break the odd paralysis holding Qui Gon in its grip, and his
Master swallowed once more before turning away to dress
himself.
It was Obi Wan's turn to stand, spellbound. Qui Gon pulled deep
brown leggings over legs Obi Wan had never before realized were
quite so long. Then even darker brown boots, followed by the
billowing shirt that was just as buttonless as Obi Wan's had
been. The lace on it was thinner, less ornate, only around his
neck and wrists. As Qui Gon shouldered into the sky blue
doublet, the gold seemed to dance in the sunlight, drawing
attention to the skin bared between the gold-edged material. A
wide brown belt clasped the narrow waist, setting off the
slender hips and wide shoulders, and Obi Wan found himself
swallowing.
His throat was the only thing that could have moved at that
moment, even to save his life. Well, his throat, and his
crotch. He ever-so-casually draped his clasped hands in front
of the bulge in the clinging material and wished fervidly for
his enveloping robes. Qui Gon raked him from scalp to sole
once, opened his mouth, closed it without saying a word, and
turned to lead the way to the top deck.
Obi Wan stared after the vision in tight brown fabric in front
of him and wondered how he could have gotten to this stage in
his life without ever realizing what incredible hind quarters
his Master had. Qui Gon glared over his shoulder for an
instant. Obi Wan's own eyes widened, and he clamped the thought
as far down into his subconscious as he could and followed his
Master up topside.
He had several long, painstakingly boring hours of fruitless
negotiations ahead of him. There was plenty of time for
hammering down lustful thoughts, helped along by rounds of
seasickness that sent him to the railing at the side of the
ship more than once. He was absolutely miserable.
It set the pattern for their mission. Mornings were bursts of
lust followed by ruthless denial. Days teetered between
listening to useless bickering and wanting to die, when not
actually hanging over the side of the ship. Nights were a
torment of swimming out from groggy-headed Force-induced naps
only to lie there for hours staring at his naked Master, just
to get up in the morning and stare at him again, in those
leggings and that doublet and all that
lace and those boots.
The seasickness was almost a relief. At least it conquered the
lust.
Sometimes.
After fifteen days of fighting to control himself on deck,
retain his dignity and not disgrace himself hanging over the
side, and fifteen nights of torturing himself watching the
moonlight gleam off Qui Gon Jinn's skin, Obi Wan was at the
breaking point.
On the sixteenth night, he cracked.
Qui Gon waved his hand over Obi Wan's face, watching the heavy
eyes fall shut under his Forceful suggestion. Shadows under
those eyes made the thick lashes seem even darker than usual.
His Padawan was not bearing up well under the physical strain
of the mission. He knew the young man wasn't getting nearly
enough rest, even with his own Force orders reinforcing his
sleep. He'd not realized Obi Wan would fall prey to such
debilitating seasickness. Of course, they'd never been so long
on a water-world before, so it hadn't ever been an issue.
He, himself, wasn't doing nearly as well as he should. He kept
finding himself ... distracted. He was concerned about his
Padawan, of course. That was why, every time he looked over to
see Obi Wan bent over the side of the ship, he lost track of
whatever he was saying. Concern. Yes, that was it.
It couldn't be the leggings. He swallowed. Well, perhaps, in a
concerned sort of way, it might be the outfit. There was
something about those leggings, on those strong, sturdy legs,
that deep red and gold of the doublet highlighting Obi Wan's
skin, painting his eyes a deeper blue, bringing a flush to his
cheeks. A flush they'd needed of late. The protective thought
triggered an idea.
Closing his eyes and working delicately, he manipulated the
Force within Obi Wan, reaching through the bonds between them
to re-order Obi Wan's shielding. Qui Gon buttressed his
Padawan's strength against the motion of the ship, weaving the
natural defenses within Obi Wan to buffer his physical systems
against the disruptive motion of their surroundings. When he
was finished, he breathed a sigh of relief. Why they hadn't
thought of this before, he didn't know, but his Padawan would
not suffer from the sea this night.
"Sweet dreams," he whispered, and lay down to his own slumber.
Deep in the grips of Force-induced sleep, Obi Wan felt
something shift. The heavy lid of repression he kept on his
deepest desires was unbolted, and those bolts were moved, taken
from his heart and put in place around his stomach. For the
first time in weeks, his system settled down completely, and he
relaxed into the first real sleep he'd had since planetfall.
In the depths of his subconscious, all the urges he'd been
tamping down took a running lunge at the lid. Without the bolts
to hold it, it flew off. Feelings, needs, seeped to the surface
of his mind, and in the sleepers, found fertile ground.
His dreams were sweet, indeed.
Qui Gon Jinn seldom dreamed. His strength was in the moment, in
connection to reality on all its levels. When he did dream,
they were thin phantoms, with no substance, no color, no grip
on his mind.
He had absolutely no defense against what this particular dream
did to him.
On the deck of a godforsaken ship on a waterlogged world he
stood, alone in a crowd. Obi Wan stood before him, resplendent
in white and crimson, black at his waist and on his feet, soft
lace falling at his hands and his throat, a trail of fine
thread drawing a complicated pattern along the sides of his
bared chest. His neck rose long and slim from the drape of lace
and heavy fabric, his head thrown back, eyes closed against the
sun. His feet were planted far apart, his fists on his hips,
tight white trousers clinging lovingly to every line of his
legs. The wide inverted vees of the heavy crimson doublet below
the belt framed an impressive erection, flaunted by the thin
white material. He laughed, and the sound surrounded Qui Gon,
drew him in, pulled him close.
Close enough to share a breath, then Obi Wan stared up at him,
cocked his head to one side, and chuckled softly. Turned. Threw
a glance over his shoulder that was both invitation and
challenge. Walked to the handrail at the side of the deck.
Bent over the rail.
This time, it wasn't to be sick. This time, that ginger head
didn't bow. The knuckles weren't clamped white, they were
relaxed, fingers caressing the rail, not hanging on for dear
life.
Not yet.
The high, tight buttocks he'd been unconsciously staring at for
the last two weeks thrust back in the tight pants, an
unmistakable invitation. Bright blue eyes winked at him over
one crimson-clad shoulder.
"You know you want it." Deep, growling laughter under the calm
tones. Long fingers slid back and over the straining muscles of
his hips and ass, a blatant signal of precisely what Obi Wan
himself wanted.
Yes. Qui Gon did want it. Had been wanting it for years. How
had he managed to ignore it all this time? It felt like he was
drunk, all his inhibitions flowing away with the water
surrounding them.
Ignoring the ambassadors still bickering behind him at the
table, the sailors moving about the deck, everyone and
everything other than the man draped across the railing, he
moved forward.
His right hand went to the small of Obi Wan's back, fingertips
brushing across the heavy worked fabric of the doublet, tracing
the lower edge of the wide belt. The slight flare of hips was
exaggerated by Obi Wan's posture, feet planted widely apart,
thighs spread, inviting his touch. Wide shoulders shook,
infinitesimally, a shudder of anticipation. Long fingers
stopped caressing the wooden railing and gripped tightly,
prepared for whatever Qui Gon would offer.
Or take.
His left hand slid gently around Obi Wan's waist, tracing the
belt along the top edge until his fingertips tangled in the
lace at the edge of the shirt. A push further, and his hand
slid inside the fabric along stomach and ribs, tracing the hard
muscles under the warm skin. Moving closer, luxuriating in the
heat rising from the smaller body trapped between his own bulk
and the ship's railing, he dropped his head forward and bit
lightly into the side of Obi Wan's neck at the same time that
his fingers reached up to tweak sharply at one nipple.
He was rewarded with a gasp that melted into a moan, and an
urgent thrust backward of those buttocks into his pelvis. The
erection he hadn't been aware he had enjoyed the movement, and
he rocked forward to heighten the sensation. Obi Wan arched
back into his arms, short hair bristling softly against his
shoulder.
"More." The command sounded like it came from his Padawan's
boot-soles. He could do nothing but obey.
His right hand moved to join his left, unbuckling the wide belt
and dropping it to the deck behind them. The leggings followed,
peeled down over muscular thighs to pool around the tops of the
shining black boots. Obi Wan preened for him, the starched
edging of the crimson doublet an exciting contrast to the
creamy skin below it, the pretense of binding caused by the
boots trapped in the leggings adding spice to the pose. One
hand continued to roam Obi Wan's chest as the other hastily
undid his own leggings, freeing his angry erection, cooling the
heat against the flesh awaiting him.
"Now." A demanding wriggle made it quite clear that Obi Wan
wanted to be fucked, and was tired of waiting for it. Qui Gon
moved to the command again, bending his knees and leaning
closer over Obi Wan's back, thrusting his knees between his
Padawan's, lining himself up for entry. Being a dream, there
was no need or thought for such petty considerations as
preparation, and he slid home as slickly as if Obi Wan had been
spreading his legs for years.
For some reason, that thought was almost unbearably exciting.
He straightened, ramming home, lifting Obi Wan completely off
his feet with the force of his thrust. A garbled cry greeted
the move, and he clamped his hands on the slim hips,
withdrawing almost completely but holding Obi Wan against the
rail so he couldn't move, couldn't regain his feet. Then he
slammed into him again, jolting a sound closer to a scream than
a moan from Obi Wan. Out again, leaving only the tip of his
cock in the grasping hole, then back in, hard, deep, rocking
them both, over and over.
It had never been this sweet. Never been this good. Even in his
dreams, it had never been this incredible.
Especially in his dreams.
Obi Wan was bent nearly double, his only anchor Qui Gon's
hands, pulling him back on that greedy cock, ramming him
against the railing, then pulling him back again, and his own
hands, gripping the railing until his fingers cramped. He felt
like he was flying, drowning, being pounded into oblivion, then
drawn back for more. Qui Gon felt huge inside him, thrusting so
deeply he could feel it in his throat, splitting him apart,
then whipping back out, leaving him empty, aching. Back in, so
hard he couldn't help but howl at the ecstatic spike of
pleasure pounding in his ass, his brain, shaking him to his
fingertips. Out, and unbearably empty, then in, and too full to
believe, over and over and over until nothing existed but the
vice-grip on his hips, the slam of flesh ripping into him, the
sucking sound of withdrawal and return, the slap of skin and
muscle between sweat-slicked bodies.
He couldn't move, didn't dare let go of the railing to grip his
own cock, full to bursting, scraping painfully against the
railing with every thrust. It hurt unlike anything he'd ever
felt and felt so incredibly good he never wanted it to end.
Every deep thrust crushed his cock on one side and pummeled his
prostate on the other, and all he could do was scream along for
the ride.
Even in dreams, it couldn't last. Without a touch other than
the bruising of the railing, his balls drew up and his cock
convulsed, his ass clamping down as Qui Gon went deep within
him and froze. Whipped into him, one spasm, a second, a third.
All strength gone, Obi Wan folded over the railing. Qui Gon's
hands slid up from his hips under his shirt again, brushing
against tight nipples, a last flare of arousal before sliding
up to his shoulders and easing him off the railings.
Strong hands turned him, and he looked up into deep blue eyes,
pupils inky and expanded nearly to the rim of the irises. Eyes
that swallowed the sky. Swallowed him. Yes.
Please.
Again.
He tangled his hands in the soft fall of hair above him and
pulled his Master's face down to his. Crushing their lips
together he devoured the man, pouring years of devotion and
months of desire into the act. One leg slid along the bed,
ankle hooking around Qui Gon's, then sliding up to catch him
behind the knee, drawing their bodies tightly together. His
erection, resurgent at the contact, slid against Qui Gon's,
sparking an avalanche of need in him.
It felt incredibly good. So hot, so needy. So real.
"Padawan." Muttered against his mouth, it was almost impossible
to understand. But he did, anyway, feeling it more than hearing
it. Feeling, as well, the shock and arousal moving between
them, lighting up the Force around them like lightning on a dry
night.
Obi Wan froze.
When had he woken up? And why hadn't he noticed?
Then Qui Gon moved, and he knew why.
His Master wasn't fighting him. His Master was making love to
him.
Struggling to the surface of his dream, knowing from the sweet
taste of sweat on his lips and the heavy weight of a warm body
in his arms that it wasn't his dream he was feeling, Qui Gon
opened himself to the Force and did what he did best -- lived
in the moment. Seeing past the surface sensuality to the
yearning behind the dream, he realized he'd unwittingly
stripped his Padawan of his last defenses against what felt
like an overwhelming love.
For him.
Sensations flooded over him, overwhelming him, nearly drowning
him in need. Desire. Affection. Respect. Devotion. Passion.
Love.
He was in motion almost before he realized it, reacting to the
reality buried within the fantasy. Obi Wan not only wanted him,
he lived for him.
As Qui Gon lived for Obi Wan.
Determined to go where the Force was leading him, or in this
case dragging him, and deciding to let the consequences wait
for the light of day for once, Qui Gon rolled their entwined
bodies over until he was atop his Padawan, shifting them both
to keep them from rolling right off the bunk. Lowering his face
until their mouths met, he took Obi Wan's mouth in their first
kiss.
Obi Wan woke up. Kissed him back. Froze in place. And stared at
him like a Sith had slithered in and taken over his body when
no one was looking.
Following his instincts, Qui Gon kissed him again. Mouth, eyes,
cheeks, jaw, temple, throat. Nips along his collarbone, over
his chest, at his nipples, along his ribs. His hands weren't
idle, either. Stroking, rubbing, patting over Obi Wan's
shoulders, along his hips, spreading his thighs gently and
settling between them. A startled moan broke his concentration
and he looked up to see huge dilated blue eyes staring down at
him. He smiled slightly then, not breaking eye contact, he
leaned down and swallowed Obi Wan whole.
The moaning started again. Every exhalation was a moan, a
prayer, an encouragement. Qui Gon took them all, and responded
with a steady rhythm, pulling back then pushing forward, taking
the length of cock down his throat then swallowing around it
before pulling back up to begin the cycle again. It didn't take
long before Obi Wan was writhing uncontrollably, only the iron
bar of Qui Gon's arm over his stomach keeping him in the bunk.
With a strangled scream he stiffened, and Qui Gon pulled back
one final time. With one hand cradling the tensed balls and the
other wrapped around the spasming cock, he milked it firmly,
gentling his strokes as Obi Wan finally relaxed, utterly spent.
Gathering the slick fluid in his left hand, Qui Gon rose to his
knees over Obi Wan's splayed body. "Watch," he commanded
quietly, and Obi Wan fought to raise his eyelids. When he knew
he had his Padawan's attention, he spread Obi Wan's semen over
his erection and pumped into his fist. Dazed blue eyes followed
the motion avidly, and it didn't take long before he was coming
himself, spraying creamy liquid over Obi Wan's belly and chest.
With a low groan, he crumpled forward.
Obi Wan caught him.
They curled up together, breathing gradually returning to
normal. Obi Wan ran one hand lazily through the mess on his
chest, drawing abstract patterns in it, rubbing it into his
skin. Qui Gon extended a finger and traced through one of the
patterns, and Obi Wan reached out. Captured the hand. Sucked
their mingled cream from it.
Qui Gon took a deep breath. Before he could say a word, Obi Wan
said softly, "Sweetest dream I've ever had."
He couldn't help it. He laughed. "Not the standard cure for
seasickness, but I suppose it will do until something better
comes along."
Obi Wan grinned up at him wickedly. "Anything better than this
will kill me."
"That which does not kill you makes you stronger." Qui Gon
twisted his hand in Obi Wan's grip, capturing the smaller hand
in his own and licking at the palm. Obi Wan shivered. "And you,
my Padawan, are going to be very strong indeed."
The ship rocked under them, and Obi Wan paled. "If I ever get
off this ball of water, that is."
Qui Gon leaned down and kissed him, thoroughly, until all
thoughts of his stomach had completely disappeared.
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