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The body in his arms was compact, muscled. Pliant—one gentle sweep of his hand up the sharp crest of a hip to the span of his ribs, and the tightness melted away with a gasp as that body arched up to meet him, tightening deliciously where they were joined. Qui-Gon groaned, burying his face in the soft hair and nuzzling at the edge of an ear.
Beneath him, his lover stretched luxuriantly, and relaxed against him with a happy sigh. “Master…”
Qui-Gon woke with a start, panting and hard. His breath was loud and ragged in the silence of the Temple, and his heart hammered in his ears. He swallowed, throat clicking.
Even in dreams the memories pursued him, relentless. He thought of Obi-Wan trapped in that small, sterile room, flushed and glassy-eyed. Tunics and tabards askew, body restlessly twitching and stretching in ways that brought him no comfort.
“What have you done to him?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Xanatos smiled that restrained little politician’s smile at him—perfect but for the gleam in his eye. “Just made it easier for you to decide what you’re going to do next, my Master.”
“No.”
“Oh yes.” The cruel smile widened.
“What did you give him?”
“Just a little something. Don’t worry, he won’t die. Probably. But it would be such a shame to disappoint him, wouldn’t it? Look at how much he needs it.”
Obi-Wan was tugging fruitlessly at his belt, fingers clumsy.
“I’ve got an entire payroll of beings who’d love to find a bit of heaven between those legs, or in that lovely whore mouth. They’d tear him apart, of course.”
Qui-Gon had struggled against the hold on him, but one Trandoshan was hard enough to throw off, let alone two. Xan had given up all pretense of gentleness then.
“A hundred cocks or yours, Master Jinn, that’s the choice he gets. And you get to make it for him.”
Qui-Gon tugged himself free of the memory and the sheets.
He’d done it. He’d chosen, cursing Xanatos in a thousand different ways. He’d hoped to avoid doing any more than easing Obi-Wan’s need—taking him in hand, or making him come down his throat. He’d hoped to avoid doing anything that his Padawan might hate him for.
“Master,” Obi-Wan whispered, hips circling restlessly. “Hurts. Need you there, inside.”
Ghostly sensations haunted him still: Obi-Wan’s skin, warm and soft and sweat-damp against his own. His Padawan’s fingers clinging tight to his shoulders. The tracings of scratches on his back had long since faded, but Qui-Gon felt them, like ghostly trails.
Qui-Gon dragged his fingers through his hair, knotted and messy as it was.
The other thing he could not shake on nights like this—and lately, that was all of them—was the anxiety, the utter dread that Obi-Wan might be in danger. Stolen from their rooms, perhaps. Even in the depths of the Temple's night cycle, the fear crept in.
Of course, the knowledge that Xanatos had once found his way into these halls offered Qui-Gon no reassurance.
His feet had taken him out of his room and to Obi-Wan’s door before he could stop himself. He slid it back an inch and peered inside.
Obi-Wan lay curled on his sleep couch, facing away towards the window. He was still, his breath slow and even with sleep.
Qui-Gon wanted to reach out with the Force. He wanted to walk in and smooth a gentle hand over his Padawan’s hair, like he might have done years ago when Obi-Wan was still a boy looking to him for care and protection.
But he’d failed in that. He’d failed, and now Obi-Wan would—rightly—find his touch unwelcome.
Qui-Gon pressed his lips into a bloodless line and gently shut the door, forcing himself away. A cup of tea, to keep his hands busy and calm his mind when it was ready. He needed all the calm he could get.
Obi-Wan let out a soft, shuddering breath.
If Qui-Gon had lingered but a moment longer, he might have realised his Padawan was not asleep. Not asleep, but lying painfully still, hand in his sleep pants and wrapped loosely around his hot, pulsing cock.
Obi-Wan bit his lip. He didn’t dare make a sound now, not with his Master pottering about the kitchen, making tea.
Yet the proximity of his Master sent a sharp thrill plunging down his spine, one that made his core clench and his cock twitch against his palm. Discovery would be mortifying, but he could not help the way the thought excited him. A thin, reedy whine rose in Obi-Wan’s throat. Teeth clenched, he buried it in the pillow and squeezed himself mercilessly.
Punishingly. It was no less than he deserved.
That was almost enough. With a soft groan, Obi-Wan let his hand loosen again, and let his aching cock slip free.
It was unbearable. For days, now, he’d been unable to come. Oh, he’d get close. But every time he came near the peak, he’d find himself craving something, needing just that little bit more for release. And no matter what he did, he couldn’t reach it.
Obi-Wan rolled onto his back with a heavy sigh, listening to his Master’s steps as Qui-Gon paced, waiting for the kettle to boil. Neither of them had been getting much sleep in recent days. Qui-Gon, he knew, felt deeply conflicted over what he’d done to save Obi-Wan’s life. The fact that Xanatos had engineered this trap as carefully as all his other ones, and left them no other option—none of that was enough to absolve Qui-Gon in his own eyes.
Obi-Wan wished he could take that burden from his Master. After all, it was Obi-Wan’s fault that he’d gotten himself captured, and drugged. His fault that he hadn’t been able to filter out the drug or overcome it. He was a Senior Padawan, after all—he should have been able to resist.
Just as he should be able to resist this now. Almost involuntarily, Obi-Wan’s hand dipped into his sleep pants again and rested, fingertips spread in four hot points along his upper thigh.
He had to keep his Force presence still and quiet. Qui-Gon might mistake a sudden flare for anxiety, or a nightmare. He might rush in, only to find his Padawan rutting like a needy animal.
The thought of Qui-Gon’s disgust sent a startling bolt of arousal through him. He could just imagine the horror in Qui-Gon’s eyes—followed by the anger. As if Qui-Gon might look right through him and somehow know those thoughts Obi-Wan had been having himself off to all this time.
Padawan. Qui-Gon’s voice would roll across the room in that harsh growl, a command snapped out in that single word, and yet Obi-Wan would be completely unable to stop.
Obi-Wan gasped and caught on to that thread of heat, desperately stripping a rough hand over his cock.
For years, he’d shied away from fantasizing about his Master. He’d skirted the very edge of propriety, forcibly reigning in his imaginings until there were only large, warm hands, or the ticklish whispers of long hair against his chest. The scrape of a beard against his shoulder, perhaps, or a whiskery kiss. A large body to blanket him and press him into the mattress—a presence in which he might be subsumed.
Carefully, Obi-Wan had kept these thoughts and sensations vague, disembodied. He hadn’t dared to imagine a face or a voice. Not even the girth and weight of a cock as he first experimented with working a toy into himself.
And in one fell stroke, Xanatos had sent those painstakingly erected walls crumbling, leaving Obi-Wan at the point of collapse. Xanatos had wanted to see them both humiliated. He’d probably wanted to see Obi-Wan bleed. Instead, his Master had taken Obi-Wan gently, carefully—and unwillingly.
And Obi-Wan had wanted it. Worse, he’d enjoyed it, wretch that he was.
This is a perversion, the Qui-Gon in his mind rumbled at him. Desecration of the bond between Master and Apprentice.
But then, you really can’t help yourself, can you?
Obi-Wan sank his teeth into his forearm to stifle a whimper. His hand sped up, and he added a rough twist over the head.
Why, then, should I call you ‘Padawan’, when it would be much more fitting to call you ‘slut’?
Obi-Wan nearly choked around a startled moan and came.
Qui-Gon glanced up from his steaming cup as his Padawan, pale-faced and sleep-tousled, padded into their common room. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”
Obi-Wan merely shook his head. “Is that sapir?”
The sky was a murky dawning grey, and Qui-Gon had given up on getting any more sleep this night cycle. At least Obi-Wan looked a little more relaxed. Wordlessly, Qui-Gon poured him a cup.
Obi-Wan bent his head over it and drank in the steam.
Such silences had always felt companionable between them. They’d greeted many a sunrise like this, both at home and on missions. Now, though, Qui-Gon felt as though a rift had yawned wide between them. Despite the closeness of their bond, Obi-Wan had been nearly unreadable since their return.
“Bad dreams?” Qui-Gon asked.
Obi-Wan shook his head. “Nothing that I can remember. Just can’t seem to stay under.”
Qui-Gon cast a careful glance over him. “You’re looking better,” he decided. The tense set of Obi-Wan’s shoulders had eased, the furrow between his brows smoothed away.
Obi-Wan eyed him with a sympathetic look. “What about you, Master?”
The concern was touching, and far more than Qui-Gon could bear. “I’ll be all right, Padawan,” he said, mustering a reassuring smile.
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. “Wait here a moment.”
Obi-Wan rose, and retreated down the hall—not to his room, but to Qui-Gon’s. Perhaps it was a testament of how tired Qui-Gon was that he thought nothing of it. Moments later, when Obi-Wan returned, he stopped unexpectedly behind him.
“This is looking gnarly,” Obi-Wan murmured, and all at once his fingers were in Qui-Gon’s hair, gathering it from around his shoulders.
Qui-Gon went very still.
Obi-Wan noticed at once, of course. “Is this… all right?” he asked, awkward and uncertain.
Qui-Gon made himself breathe in, then out again. Obi-Wan had done this for him a thousand times. It shouldn’t matter that Qui-Gon was attuned to his scent in a way he’d never been before, sensitised to his touch.
Qui-Gon cleared his throat. “Yes. Thank you, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan hovered just a split-second longer. “If you’re sure,” he murmured.
Then there was silence, and the soft whisper of a brush teasing through the ends of his hair in short gentle strokes. Obi-Wan worked with a steady rhythm, never pulling, gently drawing the comb through the strands and working his way up. The sensation was soothing, as always.
Qui-Gon tipped his head back with a sigh. The ache and tension in his neck drained with every pass of the brush, leaving behind an almost drunken lassitude. Exhaustion tugged at him, his eyelids heavy with it. Before he knew it his breathing had slowed, the brushing had stopped. Obi-Wan’s fingers went on rhythmically plaiting his hair with gentle tugs, gathering it into a long, even braid.
Eventually, Obi-Wan reached the end of the plait, much to Qui-Gon’s disappointment.
“You should rest, Master,” his Padawan half-whispered.
Qui-Gon hummed. “Can’t. Promised Mace company after breakfast.”
“As long as it’s not for sparring,” Obi-Wan said.
“Discussions of the latest installment of Master Batmur’s Arguments,” Qui-Gon said, not bothering to open his eyes or even raise his head, “but I resent the implication that I would risk grievous injury by sparring with the Master of Vapaad in my— dangerously sleep deprived condition.”
Obi-Wan snorted softly behind him, and leaned in close enough that Qui-Gon felt the warmth of him against the crown of his head. “As you say, Master.”
“Cheeky upstart,” Qui-Gon groused in good humour.
A month ago, if he were to open his eyes in such a moment, Qui-Gon would have seen a sly little grin on Obi-Wan’s face. The very thought of it made his chest ache with fondness.
And regret. A sudden painfully bitter sting of anger at Xanatos, for destroying the peace of this moment. No student of his had ever come so close to his very soul as Obi-Wan, and probably no one ever would. Now, Qui-Gon didn’t dare open his eyes again for fear that he might not find a smile there anymore, but rather a closed-off look.
Obi-Wan’s hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and then his Padawan stepped away.
Obi-Wan, uncoordinated as he was, had barely managed to wriggle out of his many layers. He struggled to even loosen them, fingers clumsily tangling in the fabric. Qui-Gon made himself cross the room.
He’d thought Obi-Wan too far gone to notice anything outside his struggles, but no: those glassy, feverish eyes locked on him at once. “Master,” Obi-Wan rasped, his voice and face changing in a way Qui-Gon had never seen before. Embarrassment, he might have expected. Instead, the look and the inflection were strangely sensual, hungry.
It sent a frightening bolt of heat through him. Qui-Gon swallowed hard, horrified at himself.
He sat down beside his Padawan, perching uneasily on the edge of the bed. “Obi-Wan, talk to me,” he murmured. “How do you feel?”
Obi-Wan’s face twisted into a grimace, and his hands went to shove at his belt again. “S’hot,” he muttered. “Need this—off.”
Qui-Gon catalogued the symptoms: sweaty, shaking, and feverish, Obi-Wan looked almost like a spice addict in withdrawal. It made Qui-Gon’s stomach twist with dark suspicion. Almost certainly, Xan had slipped him some sort of drug cocktail that left him flushed and—from the look of things—painfully aroused.
In a lucky moment of dexterity, Obi-Wan managed to undo the buckle and instantly wriggled free of the heavy leather. His restless, twitching fingers pulled his tabards loose and started working at the obi.
Qui-Gon sighed and, helplessly, reached for Obi-Wan’s hands. “Padawan,” he murmured, and paused, stunned at his own presumption. Then, “let me.”
“You look like shit.”
Qui-Gon gave Mace a tired look. “Fair enough.”
“I don’t know where your head is, but certainly not in Arguments.”
Qui-Gon sighed, and set aside his datapad. “Sorry, Mace. Some days, Batmur seems rather full of himself.”
Mace raised an eyebrow. “That's the first accurate thing you’ve said of his work today. And we’ve been at this about half an hour, which is truly admirable restraint—a performance worthy of your Padawan.”
Qui-Gon snorted.
“How is he?”
Qui-Gon winced before he could stop himself, and shied away from Mace’s piercing gaze. “Dealing far better with it all than I am, I suspect,” he said, and turned to his tea.
Mace said nothing for a moment. “You think he doesn’t remember.”
“I don’t know how he could stand to look at me if he did,” Qui-Gon admitted bitterly.
“It must be worrying him, seeing you like this.”
Qui-Gon shrugged. “You might be right.”
“Then you need to find a way to set yourself to rights, old man. What will you do if he starts to remember?”
Qui-Gon froze, then set aside his tea with a sharp breath. “When he remembers, he’ll never want anything to do with me again, Mace.”
“Or he may need you more than anyone else,” Mace countered with infuriating calm. “You are the person he trusts above all others—he may look to you for guidance.”
“To me? After I violated that trust?”
“Emotional minefields like this are seldom predictable.”
Qui-Gon looked away in disgust, self-directed though it was.
Mace eyed him for a long moment, not bothering to hide his concern. “Xanatos put you in an impossible position,” he added quietly, almost gently. “You did what was in your power to protect your Padawan. No one could blame you for making that choice.”
Qui-Gon gave him a very dubious look, but Mace simply shrugged.
“We would do anything to protect our own.”
That was certainly true. “I never thought I could kill Xanatos before that moment,” Qui-Gon said, and even to him the words sounded soft and distant. “We are taught that the Fallen are our weakest link, for they become a threat to the Order. But before now, I’d always thought there might be a way back for him. It’s as if…”
Xan had stopped being his Padawan long ago. He’d been responsible for the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands. He’d posed a very real threat both to Qui-Gon and to Obi-Wan, time and time again. And yet somehow despite all that, Qui-Gon had managed to fool himself into thinking there was still some good in him.
Qui-Gon wouldn’t have blamed Mace for pitying him, but instead his old friend just looked sympathetic. “No one would begrudge you your capacity for hope, either,” he said.
For a long moment, neither of them said a word.
“Qui-Gon.”
Mace had straightened, grown solemn. It sent a frisson down Qui-Gon’s spine: this was no longer a conversation between two old friends; this was Mace about to speak as a Councilor. Perhaps as a Councilor he felt it would be better to separate him and Obi-Wan now, maybe for a probationary period…
Qui-Gon dreaded the very thought. Viscerally. Obi-Wan wouldn’t understand why they were being separated. The change might do more harm than good.
But there was no use delaying the blow. Qui-Gon waved for Mace to continue, with some resignation.
“There will be a Senate hearing at the end of this week, an inquiry into duCrion’s activities.”
Qui-Gon blinked, caught off guard. “Yes?”
“You are the person best qualified to testify,” Mace said, still oddly hesitant. “But if, for any reason, you feel you are unable…”
Qui-Gon shook his head, barely able to suppress the intense wave of relief that tore through him. “No—I’ll speak at the hearing.”
“You’re certain?”
“I am.” Qui-Gon drew the first full breath he’d taken that day, and let himself sink back into his seat. “That, I can do.”
In the Room of a Thousand Fountains, Obi-Wan found the peace of the gardens, yet still no escape from inner turmoil.
The silence of their quarters had pressed in on him and driven him to the pools. He sat now in a quiet, shaded corner near the water, screened from all passersby and shielded in the Force, trying to calm his mind and meditate.
He could not. Every time Obi-Wan closed his eyes, he felt large warm hands on his shoulders, trailing up his body. Inside him—working him open, slowly and carefully.
In his Master’s hands Obi-Wan felt—safe. Cherished. Held, like something precious. Of course Obi-Wan knew Qui-Gon had just been trying to postpone the inevitable. His memory of those hours was fragmented, hazy, but he remembered the pained look on Qui-Gon’s face; the way he’d searched Obi-Wan’s expression for any sign of pain or pleasure.
The way his cock had gone soft the moment Obi-Wan had first begged for it inside.
Obi-Wan remembered how it had ached, that emptiness. How it had seemed that nothing could fill it but for his Master. He still felt an echo of it: hollowed out, incomplete and not quite warm enough. Nothing would ever feel like that again.
He wondered if Qui-Gon thought less of him for enjoying it. If that was why his Master could barely stand to look at him now, and why Qui-Gon seemed to find reasons to spend the day out of their quarters.
Or if, perhaps, Qui-Gon knew that the memories still haunted him.
Even now, as he sat in the gardens trying to meditate, he felt the slide of heat down his spine, the tightening low in his stomach. Qui-Gon’s hands on his skin, or framing his face. Obi-Wan wondered if Qui-Gon would ever touch him again—even in a sparring session, to correct his form.
Obi-Wan wondered if he could bear it. The very thought sent a shiver through him.
He took a deep breath, and contemplated diving headlong into the pools. Arousal was easy, he’d found. Release was… elusive.
Because what you need is to be reminded of how depraved you are, a voice not unlike his Master’s rumbled in his mind. Obi-Wan gasped and shuddered, hands curling into fists on his knees.
Time to go, he thought.
Movement cleared the mind. Qui-Gon had taken Obi-Wan’s cutting comments about sleep deprivation to heart, of course—he avoided sparring with blades even at low power, but instead had taken up a staff to practice.
Obi-Wan had done the same—a fact that Qui-Gon should not have been surprised by. But he was surprised to find Obi-Wan practicing katas with a staff in an otherwise deserted salle one afternoon. It just so happened to be the salle Qui-Gon had retreated to, for the last few days. And no small wonder—it was the one that held weapons sized for Wookiees, Trandoshans, and other particularly tall bipeds.
Qui-Gon froze just over the threshold, and stood there watching Obi-Wan’s form—struck by the thought that he’d never seen anything so beautiful. It seemed impossible to believe that he’d had anything to do with the result. Years of training had simply unlocked Obi-Wan’s natural passion, twined it together with self-discipline, and the result was nothing short of breathtaking.
Obi-Wan came down in a perfect landing, then unerringly raised his head and looked right at his Master, pinning him in place with one look.
The Force still flowed through him, loath to let him go. Obi-Wan nearly glowed with it. For a moment Qui-Gon saw him as the Knight he would one day become, then as a Master. He felt his heart stutter at the sight.
And at the sudden tiny thread of fear that his Padawan might see right through him.
“Well done,” he said, and cleared his throat.
Obi-Wan blinked, and the intensity lifted. Just like that, he was Qui-Gon’s Padawan again. “Master!”
The eager smile that bloomed across his features warmed Qui-Gon and gave his heart a gentle twist. “Excellent work. I see you are experimenting with mixing forms.”
Obi-Wan flushed, as if he’d been caught doing something untoward. The sight was totally endearing, Qui-Gon found.
“The Combat Master suggested it as a thought experiment to the Junior Padawan classes,” Obi-Wan said, “for those still searching for their form. Although I’m quite sure he didn’t mean that,” he added diffidently.
“Soresu is an interesting choice to pair with Ataru,” Qui-Gon agreed. “Defensive form with the aggressive. But perhaps they can be made to balance each other. Already, in your movements, I can see the potential for it.” Then, against every better judgement, Qui-Gon raised his staff in invitation. “Shall we test your theories?”
Obi-Wan’s bright grin was the first, and least of his worries.
They fell into a rhythm, as they so often did: Qui-Gon watching Obi-Wan’s movements, testing his guard with careful sallies. It was almost a game between them now, although Obi-Wan had never spent so much time on the defensive. He was steady, patient, calculating—Qui-Gon was surprised by how much it suited him, his spit-fire Padawan.
And then Obi-Wan moved with him, turning a defensive crouch into an attack with such fluidity that Qui-Gon actually laughed. There was a fierce joy in this, trading blows with a warrior entirely his equal. Qui-Gon could take pride in the training and the shaping, but Obi-Wan had done the rest himself.
Qui-Gon easily avoided a sweep to his feet, brought his staff down on open air as Obi-Wan rolled away, and chased after him. Obi-Wan’s defence was excellent, even in the face of the greater power Qui-Gon could put behind his strikes. Still, it was just possible to drive him back, and wait him out.
He will get better at this, Qui-Gon thought to himself. There was raw potential here, he could feel it in the way Obi-Wan sank deeper into the Force, leaned on it. One day, he’ll be able to hold me off for hours, until I’ve exhausted myself.
Force, he’s beautiful.
Along with the realisation came a surprising flash of heat. Qui-Gon gasped—and in the split second of his fractured focus, Obi-Wan had slipped out from under his attacks and driven him back again.
He held his own, but for that moment it felt like only just. Qui-Gon had intended a friendly, light-hearted sparring match, but the energy that burned through him buffeted against his carefully constructed walls, demanding release. Before he quite knew what he’d done, Qui-Gon found himself towering over his Padawan, with Obi-Wan pressed back against the wall.
“Solah,” Obi-Wan rasped, panting for breath and grinning irrepressibly. He loosened his grip on the staff and let it drop in his palm, saluting casually with it. “Thank you for the lesson, Master. I still have much to learn.”
Qui-Gon swallowed hard against a dry throat, then swallowed again. His eyes were drawn irresistibly to Obi-Wan’s red open mouth, to the pale curve of his throat as Obi-Wan stared back up at him. Qui-Gon’s lungs burned, and blood pounded in his ears, and deep in his core he felt that familiar tightening.
“I look forward to seeing the evolution of your form,” he managed.
Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. “I—really? I didn’t intend to pursue it.”
The rush of fondness was so strong, it was nearly painful. Qui-Gon forced himself to smile through it all the same. “Melding a defensive form with an offensive one has great merit, and your execution is far more elegant than any I’ve yet seen.”
Obi-Wan’s smile—open, joyous, and shyly pleased—could have lit all of Coruscant. Qui-Gon’s throat ached.
He coughed. “Now off with you,” he said, waving towards the communal showers. “I’ve a Senate hearing to prepare for.”
The Senate hearing was sure to drag on for hours, and Obi-Wan hadn’t dared to do much more than give himself a perfunctory scrub in the communal showers. He’d so rarely seen Qui-Gon unleash such power in the training halls; that sort of display was typically reserved for aggressive negotiations, not for teaching. It had not been controlled, not in the way a lesson would have been.
But even in battle, Qui-Gon’s control was impeccable. Obi-Wan had barely kept his nerve, fighting for the last shreds of his dignity in the face of Qui-Gon’s ferocity—and his own treacherous body. Pinned against the wall, he’d just about let his head fall back to bare his throat out of pure animal instinct.
And yet once again, in the privacy of their quarters, Obi-Wan found himself with a hand moving furiously between his legs and no relief in sight. He threw an arm over his face and let out a heartfelt groan.
“This is getting ridiculous,” he muttered.
For a few minutes he lay back, and determinedly thought of nothing. When his heart had calmed to something approaching normal, he blew out a breath and heaved himself up. There was no sense wasting time—he had coursework to review, and Qui-Gon probably wouldn’t mind a plate of something on his return, even if the hearing finished well into the night.
With sleep pants loose and riding low on his hips, Obi-Wan padded out of his room with every intention of making tea and something to eat. His footsteps faltered, though, just at Qui-Gon’s door.
It gave him some illicit thrill, being here, hovering in the doorway to Qui-Gon’s room. The space was saturated with his Master’s Force presence, calm, soothing. Although—Obi-Wan frowned—there was a hint of some unease in the air. No doubt the sleepless nights were telling.
He stepped into the room, and crossed it slowly. Every step led him closer to the bed, yet he was still surprised to find himself standing at the side of it, fingertips resting on the fine woven blanket. Without thinking—without daring to think—Obi-Wan bent down and rested his brow against the pillow.
Qui-Gon’s scent filled his lungs, his mind. Here was peace, here was safety: his Master’s arms around him, Qui-Gon’s heart beating in his ears; and the smell of him in every breath.
Obi-Wan groaned. His frustrated arousal roared back to the fore, his cock hardening so quickly he ached from it.
He imagined himself slipping into this bed while Qui-Gon slept fitfully, and offering himself. He’d be on elbows and knees, head buried in his arms, spine arched down to present himself for his Master. Blushing and mortified and needy, he’d take his Master’s judgement.
What is this? Can’t go even a single night without a cock in your arse?
Without allowing himself a second thought, Obi-Wan lifted the blanket and nearly threw himself into the bed. To fill his lungs with his Master’s scent, to offer himself to the ghost of Qui-Gon in his mind, ass up, head caged in his arms. No, he couldn’t manage even a night without it. He needed.
Please, Master, he’d beg, his voice a pathetic whimper.
Behind him, Qui-Gon would roll to his knees with a growl, low and deadly like a predator. He might press a thumb against Obi-Wan’s rim—loose and slick from his earlier failed attempts.
Are your toys not enough to satisfy you? Or have you been out whoring yourself to obliging agemates?
Obi-Wan nearly sobbed, and shook his head. Probably, he should’ve gone to Quinlan; Quinlan would have fucked this wrongness out of him. But he couldn’t bear the thought of it—of taking someone else inside where Qui-Gon’s cock had been. He could hardly bear the toys or his own fingers. None of it felt anything like his Master, and Obi-Wan didn’t want to lose the sense-memory of that cock filling him.
Again, Qui-Gon would swipe a rough finger over his rim. Very well. I’ll give you what you need.
Yes, Master. Thank you, Master. Obi-Wan, nearly giddy with anticipation, imagined strong fingers wrapping around his hip.
He imagined the hot blunt tip of his Master’s cock at his entrance, pressure that demanded he yield. Qui-Gon had been careful with him in Xanatos’s lair, but there hadn’t been much to work with in that sterile little room. Obi-Wan remembered that discomfort, welcomed it, knew he’d be feeling it again because he had no toy big enough to open him up for Qui-Gon’s cock.
He thought about Qui-Gon entering him all at once, with a proud, rough grunt, forcing him open. Obi-Wan bit his lip and whimpered, imagining how it would feel, how it would burn. His own cock throbbed, hot and heavy between his legs, but he wouldn’t dare touch himself. This wasn’t about his pleasure, not really.
Who would’ve thought it? Perfect Senior Padawan Kenobi hiding something so depraved.
Obi-Wan curved his back into an even more acute arch. Had there been a cock inside him, he would have hitched his hips back against it, impaling himself further. Qui-Gon would be in so deep, he’d feel it in his throat; as if all the parts of himself would gladly shuffle round for his Master’s cock to fill the hollow ache inside him.
Obi-Wan could just imagine the answering hum of approval, the way it would vibrate through him head to toe.
Just like that, Qui-Gon would rumble. Show me how much you need it.
A few more days of this and Obi-Wan might well consider crawling into his Master’s bed and using his body to beg. But for now, this was enough: slipping a hand beneath his waistband and wrapping it around hot, tender skin—gingerly, so as not to set himself off.
The Qui-Gon in his mind chuckled. And here I’d wondered if it was only that you enjoyed being watched, that imagined voice crooned in his ear. But no, it can’t be that.
Not just that, Obi-Wan amended guiltily. He didn’t remember thinking of it then, out of his mind on whatever cocktail Xan had drugged him with. He’d been thinking of Qui-Gon’s fingers inside him and little else. But their nameless audience certainly had not deterred him.
He started working himself again, strokes slow and deliberate, heavy with intent.
In his mind, Qui-Gon pushed him further—mercilessly, the way he pushed Obi-Wan in their hardest lessons. For years, you've wanted this. You’ve abased yourself, but it wasn’t enough to stop you. You deserve worse: to be laid bare and scoured clean.
But you know, the imagined voice whispered. You know you’ll never be free of me.
Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, rolling his face against the pillow. Master…
You need this, his mind whispered. Now come.
And with a broken sob, he did.
The hearing had dragged into overtime as always, but it didn’t run into the wee hours of the morning. Qui-Gon walked through the Temple’s quiet halls, nodding with absent politeness to the nocturnal Jedi and the sleepless inhabitants who crossed his path.
It was too soon to tell which way the inquiry would go, of course, but Qui-Gon found hope to be curiously absent from his thoughts. All he wanted was to go home, to see his Padawan again; to retreat into the peace of their quarters and stay there for a while, oblivious to the outside world.
Out here, Offworld had money and influence, even if that influence was mostly Outer Rim. Almost no one else had enough weight to compete against the Hutts. In the darkened silence of their quarters, Qui-Gon wouldn’t have to think about how Xanatos could get away with mass enslavement and murder.
He left his boots by the door, hung up his cloak. Their rooms were dark; thankfully, though there was a single light on in the kitchen, there was no plate of food waiting for him. Qui-Gon didn’t think he could have stomached it in any case.
The first surprise was seeing Obi-Wan in his room—curled up in his bed. Qui-Gon stared for a moment, mind blank. Obi-Wan was completely relaxed in sleep, features peaceful.
They weren’t always given separate accommodations on missions, and even now Qui-Gon felt more secure with Obi-Wan in his arms than out of them. A weakness, he would have said. He hadn’t considered, until this very moment, that Obi-Wan might have felt the same. At least, he could think of no other reason for Obi-Wan to seek out his bed here in the Temple.
And he looked so right in it.
Qui-Gon swallowed. His body, traitorous and simple, reacted to the sight. Horror caught him by the throat and he ducked into the ‘fresher.
With the door at his back and the mirror in front of him—confronting him with his shame—he felt no safer. The trouble was within him, after all: he wanted his Padawan. He’d had Obi-Wan against his will, and now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
About how it might have been, if Obi-Wan had actually wanted him, rather than needed another body to help him ride out the drugs.
These were not thoughts a Master could dare to entertain about their Padawan. Qui-Gon let his head fall back against the ‘fresher door with a quiet thump, and started the water with a flick of his hand.
He should have let it run cold to get rid of the unwanted erection, but stopped himself. There was the couch in their common room, but Qui-Gon had no idea how he’d be able to explain himself if Obi-Wan asked why he’d spent the night out there, horribly uncomfortable. A cold shower might do little more than postpone the problem.
But if he came now, he wouldn’t get hard again for hours. Suddenly exhausted, Qui-Gon peeled himself out of his robes and tunics.
He hadn’t dared to do this. In the weeks since their return from Avegna, he hadn’t dared to touch himself, and he certainly hadn’t done so thinking of Obi-Wan. He’d startled out of every half-enjoyable sex dream, horrified and sickened at himself.
Qui-Gon stepped into the shower with every intention of jerking off in a quick, perfunctory sort of way. But the warm spray enveloped him, and in his mind’s eye he saw again his Padawan lying peacefully in his bed. He had no reason to rush. The more time he spent here, in fact, the more likely he was to find Obi-Wan gone. And—if Obi-Wan did not wake—the longer he took over this, the less chance his body would have of betraying him.
Qui-Gon took himself in hand far more gently than he deserved and let loose a long, low sigh. Nothing for it, he decided. He’d have to take his time.
In the depths of Coruscant’s night cycle, Obi-Wan drifted up on the currents of sleep, back to awareness. There was warmth all along his back, and soft, even breath on his neck. An arm, comfortably heavy and secure, had been curled over his side.
Obi-Wan squirmed, curling deeper into that embrace before he could think to stop himself. The arm clamped down—and a hard length pressed against his arse.
Obi-Wan’s mind supplied him with a reminder that he’d fallen asleep in his Master’s bed, and then went blank. Behind him, Qui-Gon stirred with a low grunt and shifted even closer.
It wasn’t a dream, but it couldn’t be happening. He wanted it too much: wanted his Master’s arms around him, wanted Qui-Gon to want him. This was just sleep-addled coincidence, a parody of tenderness.
And yet… Obi-Wan knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t help himself. He hitched his hips back, as if shifting position, and relished the sharp intake of breath behind him.
He knew it when Qui-Gon woke. His Master sighed deeply, and then froze. Slowly, his arm loosened—
Obi-Wan couldn’t bear to let him go. He grabbed hold of Qui-Gon’s wrist and kept him there.
“Padawan—”
“Master.”
To his own ears, it sounded like a breathy moan, a pathetically needy plea. Guilt flooded him, and yet he could not let go of Qui-Gon’s wrist.
Qui-Gon didn’t move, as if the slightest twitch could upset this precarious balance.
“Obi-Wan, I…” Qui-Gon cleared his throat. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.”
The word escaped him in a raw whisper, and silenced his Master. For a moment, the night seemed oddly charged.
“You have nothing to apologise for,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “Master, I—I cannot release this. I’ve tried, but I cannot free my mind of it.”
Behind him, Qui-Gon released a shuddering breath. “How much do you remember?”
“All of it.”
There was no hint of what Qui-Gon was feeling in their bond. But behind him, Obi-Wan felt his Master bow his head, and press his brow against the ridge of Obi-Wan’s neck.
“I remember… I felt safe,” Obi-Wan said. “So long as I was in your arms or hidden under your body, no one and nothing could hurt me.”
A rough exhale brushed warm, damp air down his back, and Obi-Wan shivered at the sensation.
“I’d never felt anything like it,” he went on. “It haunts me. More than anything. I need to feel it again.”
In his grasp, Qui-Gon’s wrist tensed, his hand curling into a tight, white-knuckled fist.
“I want this,” Obi-Wan whispered into the darkness. “I need it.”
And then, shamefully, “I find no release without it.”
“Xanatos—”
“This has nothing to do with him.”
Qui-Gon rose up sharply into his elbow, and tugged Obi-Wan flat on his back with a single powerful yank to his hip. “How can you know? How can you know he hasn’t insinuated himself into your mind and left you wanting something you’d never want yourself?”
Obi-Wan felt his face heat. “I did want it. All Xanatos did was make it impossible to hide from.”
In the dark, he couldn’t quite see the look of doubt on Qui-Gon’s face, but he knew it was there.
“Please, Master— Qui-Gon.” Obi-Wan reached for him and wrapped a hand around his wrist again. “I know you can sense the truth of it. My mind is open to you, and you know better than anyone how Xanatos’s tampering would look.”
Still, his Master hesitated. “Obi-Wan…”
“It is not a violation if I open my mind to you.”
Obi-Wan wasn’t sure what had moved him to say it, but the way Qui-Gon stilled proved his instincts had not misled him. His heart twisted, and he squeezed gently at Qui-Gon’s wrist. Obi-Wan allowed his shields to loosen and fall away, baring himself to his Master.
All the while, he spoke, barely able to restrain the flow of regret.
“I’m sorry. I wish I’d never let down my guard. Now I've put you in an impossible position twice over, asking you for this. I wish I could exorcise this wrongness myself, but I cannot. Just once, Master. Once, without witnesses, without duress. I won’t ask for any more than that.”
Qui-Gon sighed. “Oh, Obi-Wan…”
Even like this, Qui-Gon’s touch was gentle, almost feather-light as he reached down their bond. After a few moments, he pulled back, his presence filled with a gentle, understanding kind of regret. Obi-Wan steeled himself for heartbreak, for refusal.
“Forgive me, Padawan,” Qui-Gon rasped, and leaned close to press his brow to Obi-Wan’s. “Forgive me. But if you offer me this only once, then know this: I fear I will not be able to stop.”
In the dark, Obi-Wan’s eyes went wide. He couldn’t believe his own ears, and yet—
“So don’t stop,” he whispered.
Qui-Gon huffed out a mirthless laugh. “You are my Padawan. How can I even think such a thing and still consider myself your Master?”
“You would never take advantage,” Obi-Wan said, with a certainty he felt in his very soul.
Qui-Gon raised his head. Even without seeing it, Obi-Wan knew his expression held endless regret and resignation. “I already have.”
Obi-Wan kissed him.
In the depths of his most fevered imaginings, Obi-Wan had never expected tenderness. Now, he felt overwhelmed by it: drowning in Qui-Gon’s kisses, pressed into the bed beneath his bulk. The implacable taskmaster was nowhere in evidence; neither was the man who had balked at the very thought of fucking him.
Qui-Gon had slipped his fingers inside and found Obi-Wan loose enough to take two easily. Obi-Wan could tell it surprised him.
He’d growled at this discovery. “All those times I left you in our quarters to rest, is this what you did? Played with your body while thinking of me?”
Obi-Wan blushed horribly red, but was spared having to answer when Qui-Gon crooked his fingers in a way that made him gasp.
“Did it satisfy you?” Qui-Gon rumbled into his ear, then nipped at it.
“No.”
“No?”
“I needed you,” Obi-Wan whispered, almost ashamed of the admission. “I thought you’d find it repulsive.”
Qui-Gon pushed his knees apart and settled between his legs. “My first thought, when I walked into that room, was that you looked beautiful, all desperate and wanting. And I felt like the worst kind of lech for it.”
Whatever Obi-Wan might have said to that, he forgot it the moment he felt a hot, blunt pressure at his entrance—mind emptying of everything as he was filled. That slow, hard slide left him gasping, aware of nothing but Qui-Gon’s damp breaths against his neck, the stuttering of his hips, soft grunts of effort.
And the mind-bending stretch.
Obi-Wan groaned and clenched his teeth. “Didn’t—didn’t feel—like this,” he gasped, “before!”
Qui-Gon grunted, evidently no better off. “Muscle relaxant.”
Obi-Wan buried his face in Qui-Gon’s neck with a low, animal sound.
“Steady, Padawan,” Qui-Gon murmured. “Let me in, now.”
Obi-Wan’s fingers curled into claws. He had a sudden intense flash of memory—a bodily déjà vu: himself, leaving scratches down his Master’s back as Qui-Gon filled him.
“Relax for me,” Qui-Gon hissed, even as he arched under Obi-Wan’s clawing hands and drove his hips in further. “You need this, and we both know it.”
Ages later, it was over, or at least the movement was. Obi-Wan lay panting, trapped under his Master’s bulk. Pinned and stretched open around his cock, barely able to comprehend the sensation. Every breath set off something inside him. His muscles, pushed well beyond any limit he’d ever explored, all seemed to flutter endlessly, unable to settle and be still.
“Does it hurt?” Qui-Gon asked softly.
Obi-Wan shook his head. “It’s just—so much.”
“Breathe with me a moment.”
Hard as it had been to make sense of all the overwhelming sensory flood, it was easy to match his breath to his Master’s. Obi-Wan felt his heart slow. Above him, in the half-dark, Qui-Gon’s eyes searched his face, and Obi-Wan could hardly stand it, to be on the receiving end of such intense care. He focused on what little he could see: the neat line of Qui-Gon’s beard, the proud brow, the twice-broken line of his nose.
And yet still, Qui-Gon leaned back—making him gasp at the shift inside—and caught his gaze.
“Better?”
Obi-Wan, who had been contemplating burying his face in Qui-Gon’s throat again, dropped his eyes and nodded.
Qui-Gon hummed and leaned in, nipped at his ear. And then he pitched back on his knees, lifting Obi-Wan effortlessly, and started to thrust.
Obi-Wan felt his mouth drop open. He would have cried out, but no sound escaped him. All he could do was cling to Qui-Gon’s shoulders and take it as every thrust sent him spiraling higher and higher.
And then he was there, at the edge again, hovering and yet unable to reach that peak. Qui-Gon noticed, and pulled him close.
“You wanted this,” he growled in Obi-Wan’s ear, giving him a ruthlessly hard thrust as he worked a hand between them, “now take what you’re given!”
Obi-Wan cried out, digging his nails into Qui-Gon’s shoulders.
When he came it felt like flying, like relief.
The sky was greying and lightening toward morning, and Obi-Wan lay flat and speechless, staring up at the ceiling as Qui-Gon dragged his fingertips up and down the centerline of his chest. After the intensity of their joining, the touch was soothing, and yet he could feel the banked heat somewhere below the surface, ready to burst into flame yet again.
Qui-Gon nuzzled against his temple. “All right?” he asked, a low, rich rumble.
“Yes,” Obi-Wan answered at once, and tried to shift his body closer. His muscles were loose and useless, and it felt like moving through molasses. Fortunately, Qui-Gon understood and folded his body still closer around Obi-Wan’s.
“I’m sorry, Master,” Obi-Wan said, the faintest hint of a smile at his lips, “but I’m afraid I was wrong.”
“Oh?”
“Once won’t be enough at all.”
Qui-Gon snorted, then dissolved into soft huffs of laughter. “You were wrong in other things as well, my apprentice. I could never find you repulsive. But you surprised me, as you so often do. The thought that you might want me…”
Obi-Wan hummed, and shook his head. “For years I had a harmless, faceless fantasy, and then—suddenly it all broke down. But when I thought of you, I couldn’t imagine you wanting me, so instead I imagined you… humouring me. Even your anger was enough.”
Qui-Gon was still a moment. “My anger,” he echoed uncertainly.
“Yes,” Obi-Wan whispered. “In that place. When I begged you to fuck me, it—you didn’t want to.”
“Not like that. I didn’t know if you were willing,” Qui-Gon said softly. “Mindless from whatever drugs he dosed you with.”
“Oh.” Obi-Wan let out a long, shaky breath, and tried not to think about how much relief it held.
“It was the same for me,” Qui-Gon said after a moment. “Xanatos… he’s always had a way of breaking down any barriers you might’ve built between yourself and a truth you know, deep within.”
Obi-Wan blinked, and turned his head. “You… wanted me?”
Qui-Gon’s smile was a warm, wry thing in the morning light. “Oh, dear one. Far beyond anything I could admit to myself. Sometimes I see the Jedi Knight, the Master you will become, and the vision of you humbles me. You are radiant in the Force even now, but one day you will surpass all I could have hoped for. I only hope to be there with you to see it.”
Obi-Wan could feel himself blushing, but he pushed the warm, squirming feeling of it aside. “Live in the moment, my Master,” he whispered, and leaned in for a kiss.
And Qui-Gon, wonder of wonders, met him there.