Pairing: Q/O
Rating: R
Category: POV, PWP
Archive: Master and Apprentice--anyone else ask please
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
by Nicole D'Annais
Copyright 2000


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 wears 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.

I want him.

And he wants me.

Now all I have to do is convince him.

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End


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