Author's Notes: Okay...sex in this one. Everyone knows the age old philosophy. Take it to the bedroom and everything will be all right...at least at that moment. If you do not like explicit sex.....don't read this.
DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
The moon smiles upon you…of that you are certain. It is the goddess of love in many cultures, the goddess of all lust and passion. She smiles from afar was he bends you back into his waiting arm, curled and steely. You feel…passion, like a heavy summer evening. His lips cover yours time and again, rubbing, exploring and then stopping only to return and brush along a different facet. Each return brings new feeling, new nerve firings. As always…as it should be.
“Love…” he sighs, rubbing his cheek against yours before latching onto your earlobe. His lips suckle for a moment, before moving away. You shake your head. The weighty fragrance of night blooming jasmine overwhelms the air, and you inhale. He smiles gently and moves his mouth down the planes of your throat to nibble on your collarbone. As you gasp, pulling at his heavy hair, he sighs. “I need you.”
Without a word, you push upright. Your head comes to rest next to his neck- the strong thick neck that you love to caress, to massage. The hair there is longer than it was before, less coarse and easier to touch. “Don’t talk, Master Jedi…just relax.” You whisper those words a hair’s breadth from his lips, wet from your saliva and his. You are determined to make him forget himself, so that thought can be free.
Your hands slip inside the tunic, pressing against his shoulders. They are massive. They have held the weight of the world these last few days. You lean forward, pressing your lips to his center plane, tracing the cleft in the muscle there with your tongue. He tastes of sweat and earth, of life - dark and tangy. Your hands curl around the muscle, pressing and kneading as you go. Your eyes are nearly blinded with the metallic skin before you. Usually golden, in the moonlight he is like aged copper, dusted with the remnants of a happy moon. Blessed by it, you think.
The tunic falls down his arms to completely uncover his body for your eyes. His muscles bubble over his shoulders to taper into his upper arms and smoothing out over the lower to taper to a thick and strong wrist. They are lightly covered with hair, and your arms travel down their lengths to stroke and tease. On the return trip, they curl over the muscles and you lift yourself to straddle his legs and face him.
“So beautiful, Qui-Gon Jinn…that is what you are….all man and muscle.”
His sigh is nearly lost to the wind, but you can feel it. As you settle, your hands run down his upper chest. The brawn there is well defined and echoes of power, of long standing practice sessions and hours of strenuous physical tests. You find, through memory more than sight, the line of hair that runs from his center plane down across his abdomen. The sloping lines beg for your touch, and you do not deny it. The palm of your hand lies flat on the heated ephemeral casing of his body. Jedi believe that the mortal body is simply the housing of the soul in this plane of existence, but this man’s body is so much more.
Your hands curve around his sides to graze at his waist and his ribs. Anchoring them there, you press upwards on your knees to kiss at his lips again. His hand rises to cup your head, ruffling your hair and keeps you pressed there against him. Your tongue inches inside of his mouth, running along the forged paths that you have scouted for years. His tongue twines with yours- rubbing, thick and rough. You cannot hear as his hands move to press against the sides of your head, covering your ears with his fingers and your hair. But the loss of hearing makes your sense of touch flare.
As you pull away, you see his eyes. They sparkle, both with tears and love, appearing endlessly deep in the night. He sighs and runs his hand to your neck. “How do you live with me?”
“How does a moth keep away from flame?” you answer, leaning in to nuzzle his neck.
“The flame slays the moth.”
“Only when it is uncontrolled, Jedi, and left open to be allowed to kill. In a container it is safe. I am attracted to your soul, Qui-Gon. It is contained in the body, and therefore I am safe.”
“Too much thought, love…” he sighs and leans in to capture your lips again. You can feel his physical need burning against you from his lap. Yet another flame that scorches and flares exists there, but this one can be quenched. Pushing away from his chest, you rise. Without a word, you begin to remove your clothing. The tunic scrapes along your skin, raising flesh as it goes. You allow the material to drop where it will. The leggings are next. They are loose and as such, as soon as they are released, they fall to the ground. As you right your head from your chore, you meet Qui-Gon’s eyes.
The deep pools of soul are centered on your body. They sweep from you hair, haphazardly knotted on your head, to your breasts, curved eagerly upward for his touch and because of the wind. They travel from there to your center, wet and eager for him, to your legs and feet which are curling into the hard rock in effort to stem the anticipation of joining.
He moves to stand, but you lay your hand on his shoulder. Momentarily, you run a finger up to his cheek, and then trace his mustache with its tip. “Stay where you are, Jedi.”
“Love…” he turns his head to kiss your palm, tickling it with the coarseness of his beard and the softness of his lips.
“Your leggings open, don’t they?” you whisper, moving to stand astride him. His long legs, miles in length, stretch out on the rock. Even the shapeless brown that they are, the leggings cannot hide the planes of his brawn.
His eyes drift shut as he takes a deep breath, and then without warning, he reaches out to grasp at your buttocks. “They do…but first I think I have other business to see to…” he groans lowly.
You barely have time to steady yourself with fistfuls of his hair before his mouth arches up under you and comes into contact with your center. The cool air, so much cooler atop the boulder than the ground, only serves to accentuate the heat from his mouth. His lips, surrounded by that soft-coarse hair, delve through your curls, finding and exploiting any flesh they can find. Your head tips back as moans escape from your mouth. Sooo hot, sooo … Your eyes drift shut and you arch your back as his mouth closes over your bundle, suckling. You yipe, and struggle to keep your feet below you. Birds, startled from their nests by the sudden sharp sound, flutter to life around you.
His fingers, his large hands are all that anchor you to him. He nuzzles you like a newborn cub, rubbing his whiskered cheeks against your sensitive inner thighs. Grunts rise from your center, drawn from his mouth by his own need. Heat…friction…humid…pressure…his mouth…Gods…. You call out his name. Rubbing, brushing, pulling, wrapping, suctions, soothing….your eyes fly open. You begin to gasp, sucking mouthfuls of air and using it to make noise. The hill falls away from you as you rocket up its slope, quicker than usual. The apex, nothing, simply…a ramp to the stars.
“Qui-Gon!” you scream as you feel his mouth latch onto you, hard once again, and then release you. Stars swim and colors swirl. The sky explodes and you feel him gently kiss your inner thigh and sweep his tongue over you one last time. You slide down against his chest as your knees finally give way under the weight of the passion.
His eyes are wide and filled with black pupil – dilated in passion. You come to a stop in your descent directly over his cock. It burns still. He pulls you to him in a desperate kiss, sliding his tongue into your mouth quickly. It pulls back, and allows his lips to close on your lower one, pulling it into the heated, moist cavern of his mouth. Everywhere is the smell of your arousal and his triumph of pulling it from you.
Without a word, and simply by sense of touch, you reach down and part the pieces of his leggings. It is the work of the moment to clear a passage, but his member quickly springs free from its confines – springing to life in the cool air. His moan of appreciation almost brings a smile to your face. The older the man gets, the less able he is to conceal his want. Age does indeed mellow. Its length is molten and ready, red and needy.
He grunts as you rise on your knees, the tender skin there cut slightly by the rough stone. Your knees are still weak from your orgasm; your bones still watery. His need is evident, and so you try to ignore your want of sedimentation.
His hands support your hips as you move his cock to your entrance. You grasp at his shoulder with your other hand, and then you are sinking…drowning really. Its length spears you, separates you, fills you. Gravity works with you, driving your weight down on his enormous size. Every inch is a mile and you groan, almost scream, as you take his last few segments. This position is new and untried between the two of you – both sitting and the feeling is incredible.
You lean back, your hair touching his legs and your buttocks. Your hands land on his thighs just above his knees, and you press your weight there. His hands span your waist easily and serve to support you. With a sigh, you circle your hips and use the muscles in your thighs to rise. Incred…this position…
His groan answers yours in a mating call a lifetime long. You can not see his eyes, his body, all you see are stars. Your muscles are still eager to pull and tighten on him, left over from your orgasm. His size does nothing to stop them… Gods! Always wonderful…
You slide down, coming to a rest, only to be urged up by his hands. You are in charge- this position leaves him no room to thrust. He needs movement and he needs it now. His sighs and moans drive you to rise and fall. Up, circle, down. Soon your hips are doing it in a fast and uncontrolled manner. But his grunts are your reward.
So big…strong…hot…humid…
Beautiful and tame, wild and wonderful, your mate urges your lovemaking to an incredible pace. He needs your body; he needs his release.
Up and down, your hips piston against his, until…
His shout echoes over the rock to the trees and stream beyond. It seems as though nature stops to hear his passion and release. He cries out your name, trying to thrash his hips and move his thighs to gain that last bit of bittersweet contact. Qui-Gon flies to a special place, amongst the stars, leaving you to come to a slow stop on his thighs.
His breathing is erratic and heavy. Without a word, he eases your head forward, tilting your joining. You can feel his seed easing out of your entrance to coat him and you. You can care less, as his lips find yours in a gentle, chaste kiss that brings tears to your eyes. And feeling the moisture on his cheeks, you realize that the grieving process has begun again…anew. It will take time, but it will happen.
The stream’s gurgling sounds reach through the trees and the moon shines. Nature reaches to him in the Living Force, and you hope that it and you will ease his pain so he can think.