Master
Apprentice  Archive
All That Jinn
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I could just stand and look at him all day like that. Just standing there, in the queue in the Temple cafeteria, waiting to hand his tray back in, lost in thought or thoughtless, idle, relaxed.
I could just eat him.
Okay, I have just eaten. Exceedingly good nerf in fact, which is why we're here in the first place. Oh, he claims he doesn't want to bother me with cooking his favourite dish, what with all the spices and minute-perfect diligence it takes, but the truth is he just wants to take his pick from the dozens of pieces that the Padawan-on-duty is carving up, and he always, always chooses the least cooked one when he thinks I'm not looking. He likes his meat pink, and I can't for the life of me think why that embarrasses him.
It's quite appropriate really.
Not that there's any pink visible from where I'm standing, right behind him. Oh no, he's the picture of Jedi serenity, perfectly decent in his layered cream tunics, resting his weight on one booted foot, idly brushing the floor with the other.
And yet I couldn't think of anything more seductive.
In fact, I find it hard to think of anything else at all when I see my Master from behind, radiating that warm heavy calm, a warmth that springs from the hard muscular body and spreads outward through the worn linens like an aura and tingles on my skin.
He is rooted in the earth, don't ask. Even 43 storeys up above the questionable surface of Coruscant his legs give the impression of being extensions of a living ground, the low heels of his boots planted firmly in their place, supporting glorious calves encased in tight sturdy leather, hard and yet warm to the touch and exuding that faint scent of wax when I kneel to undo the buckles and peel the straps away one by one, eight of them on each boot, and free his feet at the end of a long day in the field. He has huge feet, long and bony and with pale flat toenails that could cut leather if he let them grow long enough. So very Qui-Gon everything about him is tough and hard, and yet extremely sensitive. Those toenails could be used as weapons... and yet I can make him purr like an overgrown kitten if I rub my thumbs along the arches of his feet, and I've done that a lot since he first took me as his Padawan, and long before he allowed me to rub other parts of him, parts that are even more receptive... but I digress.
He doesn't seem to advance much, and the queue behind me is pressing on. And I love the way he walks, long easy strides, unhurried and almost noiseless. He eats up space when he comes towards me on those long legs, and Force knows it feels wonderful to be taken by surprise and squashed between a solid wall and a solid Jinn, his long muscular thighs pressing into my groin like silk-covered steel... I imagine I can see the delicate shift of those iron-hard muscles under the loose leggings as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. But maybe I imagine too much... maybe I just love to imagine that weight crushing me under him, under all that heavy panting heat, and those steel thighs wrapping around my waist or my neck, holding me down, holding me captive...
Here, in public, I'm acutely grateful for the generous length of standard-issue Jedi tunics as they conveniently hide both my Master's lush firm ass and my unmistakable reaction to it... of course, all my eyes really see is layers of worn cream linen, softened and bleached from hundreds of washes, hugging his broad back. But these lines... the way that tabard just accentuates the broad shoulders and then slowly and inexorably slides down towards the waist, to be caught in the broad sash that wraps tightly around him, as if to remind the world that there isn't the tiniest bit of fat on Qui-Gon's magnificent body, and that the only softness one can reasonably expect is that of his skin stretched easily over hard-working muscles and bones.
I've spent years poring over that line, that perfect V that strictly speaking adorns every Jedi's body because that's the way our tunics are made. And yet, with everyone else, it's just clothes, just a line that sits more or less comfortably on a body that has nothing to do with it. With Qui-Gon it's... he inhabits that line, he _is_ that perfect V, as if these clothes were designed solely to make him look glorious in them. All that broad, smooth, unimpressive linen gathered by that sash and topped with the plain leather belt wrapped tightly around him... I mean, when I look at myself in my tunics, I see a compact tenacious little fighter. When I look at Qui-Gon, I look at perfection. And I look up, and up, and up... maybe it's his towering height that makes him look so graceful, a length to balance how broad and strong he is. His upper arms make me want to bite them, I don't know why... and I can't even see his hands from here as he's holding the tray in front of him.
I think if I could see those hands I would be in serious trouble.
They're huge, like everything about him is. And warm, always warm and dry. The skin's a bit rough, but not nearly as harsh and callused as you'd expect from a swordsman like him. He's got a very good lightsabre hilt actually, and even better hands... long elegant fingers with soft blunt tips and short hard nails, an empire of sensation concentrated on a few square centimetres of his body. I love to watch these hands converse in Mis-Nari sign language, and I love to watch them at rest, lying idly against his thigh when he's reading, or absent-mindedly stroking his beard.
Of course I can't see his face from where I'm standing. I can't even see the back of his neck, which is good in a way, because if I could I might have to answer nosy questions from my fellow Jedi about the precise nature of that crescent-shaped bruise at my Master's nape, there where his scent is strongest, in the warm nest underneath all that hair...
All that hair. Streaming carelessly over his shoulders and back, a thick waterfall of brown peppered with silver. I don't think he knows he's got a whole strand of white at the back of his head because it's fanned out all over the place by the time it's emerged from under the section pulled back by that old leather tie he adamantly refuses to replace. I only know because I love to wash and comb his hair, sink my fingers in that thick heavy mass and massage his scalp. I adore it when it's all loose and falling around his face, when it's all messy and mussed and strands stick to his forehead with the sweat he's worked up... makes him look like a lion. My very own lion.
In fact, it's a tad too shiny today. It could probably do with a wash...
"You are altogether too fussy, Padawan," he rumbles, settling himself into the gently steaming water of the tub. I know he's only half serious, and he enjoys this as much as I do. Maybe he'd enjoy it even more if the tub was actually long enough for him, but that's statistic averages for you. Nobody at the Temple has a tub that could accommodate all that Jinn, and neither have we.
He rests his calves on the wide tiled bench on the foot end of the tub and nestles his head against my belly as I kneel at the opposite end, waist deep in the fragrant water. The perfect position... I rake my gaze along his body, relaxed in all its barely concealed strength. Long powerful thighs rising out of the water... and at my end, the calm features of his face, eyes closed, lips half-parted in quiet pleasure as I gently soak his mane, letting the warm water run down his face from my cupped hands.
I rub up a lather from the big piece of green soap he loves so much and card my fingers through the tangled wet strands, massaging his soft scalp until he purrs, soft low noises carried along on every breath. I know he must feel the gentle pressure of my rising erection against the back of his neck... I am fair electrified at the constant brush of his hair against the tip, just the tips of his thick mane stroking and tickling my heated flesh, wet strands clinging to me and making me wish for the impossible that that hair take on a life of its own and wrap itself around me tightly, squeezing me in its silken embrace until I come... with a deep sigh, I begin to rinse the suds from Qui-Gon's hair, now a shining near-black plane of heavy rough silk. I squeeze the water from it and watch it lightening up. It's dry, Qui-Gon's hair, and would be all but unmanageable if it wasn't for the odd intervention from me. Still, I'd do anything to keep him from cutting it short as he sometimes threatens to do. Right now, I dip one finger into the bowl and trail it around his lips teasingly...
He sucks it in greedily, giving a deep contented rumble of appreciation. I could probably cover him in this stuff inside and out and he'd be in heaven it's actually one of his favourite desserts, and only happens to be good for his hair too. Creamy white soft cheese with a liberal helping of honey and some yolks from whoever happens to be laying spare eggs at the moment. I sometimes add coriander and vanilla just to humour him, but found that on those occasions he'd sometimes not leave enough of the stuff to cover his hair... as it is, he's refusing to let go of my finger, biting down gently every time I try to withdraw it, so I slap on the cool creamy mixture with my one free hand while having the other kissed and suckled, finger by finger... delicious, my Master, and he knows it.
He also knows, in his sane mind, that he should keep quiet and stay where he is for a few minutes now, to allow the sticky stuff to work its magic on his hair. And of course he does nothing of the kind because he's not in his sane mind. With a sigh, I scoot a little closer and rest his head on one of my thighs, just above the water.
"Master, there's some more hair that needs taking care of. May I...?" He groans as I bury my hand in the thick nest of curls under the water, and the flash of pleasure in his deep blue eyes blooms into a smile on my face. I massage and tickle his furry bits, lightly scrape my nails along the sensitive skin under the short hairs, now and then bumping against the straining shaft, the tip of which is poking out of the water at a rakish angle, like a throbbing deep red island. I cast a glance at his head (eyes fluttering closed, lips parted, breathing heavily, sticky stuff still in place, and damn it his hair feels gorgeous against my cock) and continue my ministrations with trembling hands.
Down around the base of the thick jutting cock, ignoring his needy whimpers, and over the heavy balls. Oh, Qui-Gon has the most gorgeous pair of balls imaginable... velvety and heavy and round and so so sensitive just my fingertips playing with the tiny hairs covering them make him squirm and thrust his hips, trying to get more of my hands on more of him. I risk using both hands now, one trailing down to the tender skin just below his testes, running questing fingertips between the heavy sac and the tight little opening, making him shiver with delight, and the other... the other gripping his balls tightly, with the kind of strength that I would never use on such a delicate part if I didn't know that's just what Qui-Gon wants, and wants more than anything else. He moans heart-breakingly now, writhing in my vice grip, arching and bucking and thrusting his hard cock out of the water, a pearl of cloudy liquid running from the deep red head. I can't resist I lick it off with a flick of tongue, and he thrusts up into where my mouth was with such force that I hold on to his cock for balance as he writhes around in the water, demanding more of my tight grip, thrashing his head from side to side rubbing and pressing against my own hardness, smearing it with the sticky white stuff as it comes out of his hair in the water and catching my throbbing cock in the tangled silken strands of his... hair... aaaaaagh
When my mind returns to my body I stare incredulously at Qui-Gon's softening cock in my hand, still leaking slippery white all over it... I reach my own hand down to where the earth just moved for me and find myself thoroughly entangled in my Master's unruly tresses, and my seed mingled with the soft cheese and honey and egg yolks and all of it still in Qui-Gon's hair... I blush deep scarlet, half with embarrassment, half with renewed arousal at this fantasy of mine come true, and Qui-Gon brushes some white-slick strands of hair from his forehead and smiles up at me, the crinkles around his eyes little sunbursts of mirth...
"I believe protein is supposed to be very good for your hair actually. Though I could hardly ask you for a repeat performance every time you wash mine...?"
I chuckle warmly and begin to rinse the thick white from his head, exposing shiny silken deep brown once more. Marinated to perfection in his favourite dessert, crowned with his favourite sauce ('essence of Padawan' as he grinningly calls it. Even in the cafeteria!), it streams down his back as he rises from the tepid water, a beautiful thing.
But only an afterthought really at the sight of all that Jinn.
--- The End ---