Master Apprentice
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Palms meet across the glass and Qui-Gon imagines the thick barrier grows warm beneath their heat. He leans his forehead against the glass, smiles as Obi-Wan does the same.
"I miss you," whispers his padawan.
"I love you," replies Qui-Gon, watching as Obi-Wan smiles, the even, white teeth peeking past the red lips that Qui-Gon hasn't kissed in several weeks. He knows how they would feel beneath his own, knows how Obi-Wan's lips would part, his own tongue sliding into the welcoming warmth. Qui-Gon remembers how Obi-Wan tastes, he can bring the memory of it to mind. He licks his lips, wetting them as desire surges through him, for a moment unchecked.
"I want to kiss you," says Obi-Wan; hint of a pout in his voice matching the slight protrusion of his lower lip.
Qui-Gon wonders if Obi-Wan read his mind, or did he see the flare of arousal in his master's eyes. Or maybe Obi-Wan misses their touches in the night as much as Qui-Gon. Maybe even more so, isolated as he is behind the glass. Qui-Gon licks his lips again.
"I can taste you," he says, his voice grown husky. He watches as Obi-Wan's mouth opens on a gasp, his nostrils flaring.
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan whispers.
"Your lips taste like sweet mead. You intoxicate me."
"Master..." Obi-Wan's whisper fades and his body presses along the length of the glass. Qui-Gon can feel his longing through the bond, he can feel it through the Force, a wave of lust that threatens to shatter the barrier between them.
"The skin beneath your ears tastes more like powdered honey while the hollow of your neck is a feast of spice and sweat, with a hint of sweet and sour."
Obi-Wan moans as Qui-Gon speaks, his body moving slightly against the glass. Qui-Gon lets his own body rest against the smooth pane, his eyes tracing the route he is describing for his mouth, seeing in his mind the flesh that is in reality covered by the loose robe the med-centre has given his padawan.
"Your nipples feel like small seeds against my tongue. They grow harder as I lick and suck them; my own tighten as I do it and the feeling goes straight to my shaft. Does it feel like that for you? Does my touch make you hard? Make you ache?"
Obi-Wan moans again and the sound makes Qui-Gon shiver, makes his own erection throb. Obi-Wan's hips are moving against the glass now, shifting rhythmically. Qui-Gon imagines he can feel Obi-Wan's hard length sliding against him, imagines he can feel his padawan's heat warming him. He swallows as his throat grows tight and, voice deeply husky, continues.
"Your chest is almost smooth, only the hint of soft hair beneath my tongue, which disappears as I trace the muscles of your abdomen. They shift beneath my kiss and tremble slightly. I can feel the vibrations of your moan as I dip the tip of my tongue into your navel. Can you feel it?"
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan's voice is a whisper, drawn out and rich with longing.
"I take your hips in my hands; they fit perfectly. As if your hips and my hands are a matched set. I rub my thumbs along the indent that leads to the crease between your thighs and groin. Ah, yes, that's the noise -that hitch as if my touch makes you forget how to breathe."
Obi-Wan's breath hitches and is released with a moan. Qui-Gon's eyes are closed now, but he doesn't need them to see how Obi-Wan writhes at his words, as if he were really touching his padawan and licking and breathing against sensitive skin.
"Don't stop there," says Obi-Wan between gasps and so Qui-Gon continues to torment them both.
"I kneel at your feet and nuzzle your erection. Hot, like silk, here the scent of you is strong and I know the taste will be stronger still. I lap at the drops that wet the tip and the flavour of you, unfiltered, unmasked, explodes across my tongue. As I slide you between my lips, pull you in and suck, I search for another dose of you." Qui-Gon's fingers curl against he glass and he knows Obi-Wan's do the same; they are almost holding hands, he can feel them holding hands. It's as close as they have come for three weeks and it will be two more before Obi-Wan will be allowed out of isolation. But in this moment it is as if the glass no longer exists between them.
"I suck, searching for your pure taste, and your hands tangle in my hair, holding me in place as you begin to thrust." Qui-Gon's words are spoken between gasping breaths and his own hips match Obi-Wan's as they rub against the glass. Qui-Gon is close and he knows that Obi-Wan is too, can tell by the tiny whimpers that could be 'please' over and over again, if they were words.
"You...come." He hears Obi-Wan's cry as he comes. The sound, soft and familiar, along with the remembered flood of juices in his mouth makes Qui-Gon come too.
Opening his eyes, he finds himself staring into grey depths, slightly obscured by the mist on the glass -now truly warmed by their ragged breathing.
"I love you," whispers his padawan.
"I miss you," replies Qui-Gon.
End.