Archive: Master and Apprentice (and The Nesting Place)
Category: PWP
Disclaimer: Lucas owns 'em. I use 'em. Lots.
Feedback: Please! Good or bad, sock it to me.
Notes: After receiving a loving but forceful shove from some who've read this,
I am posting this to the entire list. It's definitely different in tone than my previous
stories, so regular readers beware...
Pairing: Q/O
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Qui-Gon reflects on some things he's noticed about his apprentice.
Warnings: Gets a little rough, but not too bad
He leaps in the air, spinning like a dizzy butterfly, head over heels, learning to become the maestro of his own abilities. I can sense Obi-Wan's command of the Force, see the tiny beads of sweat which appear on his upper lip. If I close my eyes I can taste them, salty and forbidden against my tongue. This is a training ritual he's repeated so often I have dreamed of it, so familiar I could give these instructions in my sleep.
"Be one with the Force, Padawan," I call, knowing he heeds my words, embracing them, wrenching them into the world of concentration he inhabits at this moment. "Use it not as a weapon, but as a tool. Let it flow though you." His turns and spins become faster, his strikes more sure, and I am spellbound by his youthful power. The simple joy and athletic beauty of his actions spark proud desire in my heart.
I have been watching him execute these dangerous stunts for many years. Something drives him to test the limits of what is acceptable. Perhaps this is why he delights in flaunting his feelings for all to observe. When we became lovers, I knew this was to be expected. The sheer breathtaking honesty of our bond has put so much into perspective...
As he finishes the exercise and deactivates his lightsaber, he turns to face me. I meet his eyes steadily, well aware of what I will see there - his blue-green gaze, so much like light summer rain, pattering across my skin as he looks at me. Infinite eyes, which can be so deceptively bland, so innocently blank during delicate negotiations on far-away worlds, but which suddenly blaze with a deep cobalt fire in the heat of battle. Their depths contain so many secret wishes, such glittering promises. My apprentice is dark and deep and filled with lustful aching; I can sense his emotions as vividly as though we were one person.
His eyes are his most deadly weapon. I cannot withstand their assault.
"Well, Master?" Simple words, spoken with such assurance. He knows I am proud of his skill, yet he expects to be taken to task for his exuberance. His words emerge tinged with smug amusement. His voice is an instrument of his profession, used to manipulate or influence. Often, he uses those low tones to calm or distract an opponent, bending their will to his. I know what it is to have my pleasure directed by his words, to have my passion deepened by the suggestive sounds which rise from his throat, to hear my name spoken coarsely between gasps and cries, to hear the implosions of want in his shadowed tones as he comes with me, or for me.
"Less aggression, Padawan," I chide him. "You brandish the Force like a torch thrust out in front of you. Use it instead as a beacon. Let it guide you toward your goal."
"Yes, Master," he responds, a tiny grin curling the corners of his mouth in a seductive way that causes me to smile in return. His lips are often a particular focus of my attention. Soft and full, and easily teased into a mischievous smile or a wanton openness. That mouth has blazed searing trails across my skin, in all directions, heedless of my pleas to stop. His lips become a grim, tense line in battle or practice, as his jaw is set with determination; this is when he is most tenacious and not easily distracted.
Yet how simple a thing it is for him to distract my attention when his kisses fall feather-light across my face, his lips sensuously moving in one direction only...
"Begin again, and this time I want to see that you can execute the routine without your saber." I direct him to return to the exercise, sensing his willingness and eagerness to please. "Show me the technique of the open hand," I instruct, feeling a deep sense of peace flooding through my Padawan. He starts again at the beginning, moving with graceful speed through the various patterns he knows so well. The simple ones first, then the more difficult, always with a confidence born of repetition.
Obi-Wan obeys my subtle corrections immediately, his loyalty complete. He is fierce in his devotion, like a wild animal whose instincts drive him to protect the only home he knows. He tempers this fidelity with the cooling influence of submission, giving himself over to me in many things. He has surrendered to me completely, body and spirit, and I have made of him what my love dictated.
A sweep of his fingers to the right, an outstretched palm, and objects move through his ability to focus the Force. First a towel which sits abandoned beside the mats, then a small cup. Finally, with dizzying ability, my Padawan has picked up every object in the practice hall and suspended them in midair, hurling them about in dangerous, synchronous orbits, as he runs through the remaining steps of the exercise. I watch as he moves his fingers quickly, with definitive gestures, controlling every inanimate object in the room, his hands mere extensions of the Force.
I once pressed the palm of my hand to his, and marveled at how fragile his seemed in comparison. So small, barely half the size. The tips of his fingers curled under slightly when his skin contacted mine, and that tiny, gentle stroking made my heart ache. When first he touched me, wrapping his shaking fingers around the need which had grown to urgent proportions in me, I knew he was not fragile at all. His strength nearly broke me with its restrained tenderness.
Obi-Wan's movements slow, his drill coming to an end, and he vaults over the mats to the final stance of the exercise, measuring each breath. He walks toward me, hips swaying in the leashed swagger I've come to appreciate, a seductive, voracious gait. I have difficulty looking away as an image rises unbidden, of those hips thrusting hard against me, penetrating deeply, exposing me.
He never breaks his stride, never wavers in his focus, directed toward me, eyes on my eyes. "Master," he says, acknowledging my role, compelling me toward obedience to the title. Then he is on me, practice tunic tossed aside, lips open and willing, hands delving into regions so thoroughly explored that they seem well-known and strange all at once. We fall to the ground, biting, clinging, pushing against familiarity. His hands glide over my shoulders, pulling down, as I roll into his touch, wanting it too much to speak. Reckless need comes over me, tinged with the brilliance of lust.
An urgent connection is formed, enraged and desperate in its fervor, as I throw him on his stomach, and he pushes up to meet me, growling like an untamed, wild thing. I rip aside the intrusive cloth which separates us and I am inside him, abandoning all gentleness, satisfying this primitive thing which is burning in me, filling him until I am become a part of him, undivided. My hunger ruptures the boundaries of what was known before, as blinding as a naked sun. I am lost inside him, feeling a burning build in me until I come apart, a thousand colored threads unraveling, the substance of my existence torn open. My arm is curled around his stomach, holding him in place; my teeth have fastened to his shoulder blade, his shuddering climax wracking us both. I lose all sense of myself when I hear his howl of fulfillment crackling through the silence of this sacred Jedi place.
We fall side by side to the floor, tremors coursing though us. He breathes my name, thinks it; the word becomes a caress as it slides from his tongue. I press my lips to his neck, to the bloodied teeth marks on his shoulder, disturbed by the base desire which overtook me. Reading me easily, my Padawan turns to me, face pressed close to mine.
"Take me again, Master," he whispers, that infernal grin lighting his face.
How easy it would be. And how dangerous.