Master Apprentice Archive Anger Quick search:

Rating: NC-17

Archive: M-A

Series: uh... I never know anymore.

Categories: TPM, O/Other implied, Q/O, POV (Q), BDSM (only if you're faint-hearted; in that case, angry!Qui might bother you more)

Feedback: Dying for it, please.

Summary: Qui-Gon discovers he's rather bothered by his padawan's sexual meanderings. Unoriginal, yes. Sue me.

Spoilers/Warnings: MR Easter-egg reference (bagpipes scene with Baz); might touch some RPS buttons with some folks. Faint opening strains of non-con. Mild BDSM. Like being pinned down under those great big hands needs to be warned against.

Disclaimers: Someday I intend to use my own beloved, beautiful characters to write for fame, fortune and glory. Today is not that day.

Notes: Look, Master Ruth, it's a wall. For Dragonkal, who assisted in the bunny's spawning, and thanks again to Cuimne, who has discovered what an awful speller I am since I went back to Word Pad, and who has discovered, too, my penchant for coining words and modifiers out of nowhere. Errors are all mine. Somewhere, another English teacher's head has exploded.

/.... / Denotes thoughts and bond speak.

A lover. Obi-Wan has a lover.

Whatever his name is, he's captured Obi-Wan's attention completely with his naming day gift. The trio plays noisily, though the music is noisy by nature and this is not necessarily a detriment. Obi-Wan is enraptured, staring at the band playing so well the indigenous music from his home planet. So unbelievably thrilled is he that he cannot keep his hands, or his mouth, off of his friend.

Great Force, did that knight just put his hand on Obi-Wan's--?

My hands tighten reflexively under my sleeves. I thought we had an understanding. I thought perhaps that he knew me well enough to know that this kind of behavior would not be considered acceptable. Oh, Obi-Wan has always been openly affectionate. He places a high premium on physical freedom and has always been equally casual with males and females alike. But this--

There is something going on here. Obi-Wan is playing with the man's ear, the back of his neck, rifling his fingers through his hair. He's older than my padawan, this one is, perhaps only a bit younger than I am. He has a handsome smile and winning eyes, and the way Obi-Wan looks at him stings me deeply. They watch the pipers play to completion, then Obi-Wan turns to hug his... friend... once more, kissing the side of his neck, then just below his ear, then his mouth. Not lingering kisses, no, simply the kisses one lover bestows on another in a public place.

Beneath my pain there is a great deal of anger. Obi-Wan knew. He had to have known that when I told him those three years ago that we should wait, that there would come a more prudent time for us--but perhaps I was never clear enough. He has never seen me with a lover since that time (there have been none) but perhaps that wasn't enough for him to know--to be sure.

But am I to believe that Obi-Wan would declare his love for me, his need and desire, and then simply continue on with his life, including whomever he wishes?

My arms are tense and my fists are now hard and I am ever so grateful for the length of the sleeves of my robe. It is said that no one evokes true anger save the one we love most dearly. I believe that to be true in this moment.

Finally, finally, he looks over at me, his bright smile fading to a confused look, a contrite one. He pulls away from his friend and holds his hand out to me, beckoning. The temptation is strong to go to him, to grip his arm and pull him from the hall, demanding an explanation. But no, a Jedi does not act in anger. I tip my head up, straightening my spine and staring at him levelly. He knows what he's done. He knows, now, if not before, that he has made a grievous error. I grit my teeth behind my placid expression, my jaw tensing and relaxing as I fight the smugness of having made my point so abundantly clear without words, from across the room. He probes hesitantly into the bond between us, but I do not answer. In fact, I solidify my shields, barring him from my mind. I will not have this out in public, whatever ease my padawan feels in displaying himself so.

He looks away, down. He is now no longer touching his friend, who is turned toward him, speaking softly, urgently, perhaps asking what is wrong. Obi-Wan mumbles something, still staring at the floor, and his friend leans closer, a one-word question leaving his mouth. Obi-Wan looks up at me again, feeling parsecs away, though he is just out of earshot in the buzzing naming day throng. His friend looks over as well, and I see him utter one word: "Oh."

My anger peaks. /Enough,/ I think, seething. I raise my hood, fold my arms into my sleeves before me and bow, mockingly, in his direction. Then I leave, abandoning him to whatever else he can glean from his small celebration. It is unlike me; he brings something out in me that is too animal to reason. At the same time, this is a deliberate act, cold, perhaps even cruel.

But no crueler, I think, than flaunting a lover before the one you were meant to be bound to.

I am not much calmer by the time he finally returns to our rooms, but my facade is seamless. I am sitting on my sleep couch when he enters, a small mug of tea cupped in one palm, a datapad in my lap. My mind has been going through the motions of studying political diplomacy in the Middle Rim while my heart aches and my lungs burn and my emotions scream about the ugly indignity just done to me. Nevertheless, my eyes are calm when I look up at him, fairly slinking into our room, sinking onto his own couch and fumbling with his boot buckles.

"Master," he begins quietly, opening his mouth to say more, perhaps to explain. I deliberately mistake his meaning, cutting him off.

"Padawan," I return coolly in greeting, nodding in his direction. "I trust you had a pleasant naming day."

"I've done something awful, haven't I?" he blurts, glaring at me, then rushes on, boots forgotten. "Or at least you think so. It's been three years, Qui-Gon. Three years, and I have tried so hard--" He chokes the words off quickly and looks away.

I stare at him incredulously. "You came to me, Obi-Wan. I would have been content to wait, perhaps uncomfortably, but silently, while you had your liaisons and your relationships. Perhaps I might have managed a few of my own. But knowing I was requited, knowing you wanted me, that you were even certain enough to want to bond with me at twenty-one, well. One would hope that it was more than the hormonal fervor of youth that drove you to me that night."

"One would hope," he whispers, slumping forward, his elbows on his knees.

My hands are shaking. If the tea were not already half gone, it would have been spilling down my wrist and onto my knee. I set the cup aside and toss the datapad to the bed and rise, a mistake. I tower over him and am struck with an uneasy sense of power, seemingly from nowhere. My anger spikes again.

"Then that was it," I breathe, and he looks up at me petulantly. I find I am making fists again, and this time there is no long-sleeved cloak to disguise the evidence of my rage. Force help me, I no longer care. "A hasty declaration of lust, was it? Or perhaps you felt it would ease your training to bed your--"

"How dare you?" he demands sharply, getting up. "It was you who pushed me away with some half-spoken promise of 'later.' What does that mean? It's 'later.' It's been 'later.' In these years, in all this time, I've had no sign. I serve you, learn from you, bloody well worship you and there's nothing in return. Your fucking stoicism is enough to drive me mad. I can't take it. Lam wants me and he shows it. The looks I get from him aren't cool and reserved and his touches aren't restrained. He hides nothing. That's what I want. I want to know my lover feels passion so that I can release some of my own." He turns away from me in pained frustration. "You can't hug a stone, Qui-Gon, and it's not much good to try to have sex with one, either."

And he's walking away, leaving me breathlessly stunned, my anger only briefly walled behind the shock of his words. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I am striding toward him, gripping his arm, whirling him around.

"Do... not. Do not walk away from me," I grit out.

He glances down at my hand disdainfully. If I am hurting him, he does not show it. He nods his head, meeting my glare steadily. "Now I get a reaction. Well I see no reason why my walking away today is any different from you walking away every day since that night." He tries to jerk free of my grip but my hands are too big. If he wants to get away now, it's going to take a fight.

"Let go," he bites out.

"I won't. You are not going back to him."

Obi-Wan laughs, genuinely amused. "Are you going to tie me down? Guard me all night long? What about tomorrow?" He shakes his head. "Your lack of foresight disappoints me."

His blatant disrespect sends rabid fury searing through me. There is, perhaps, one thing I can do to ensure that he never goes back. I see it clearly and it is dangerously tempting, intoxicating in its immediacy. I let go of his arm then and drive him into the wall, pinning him there hard by his shoulders. He expels a yelp, twisting.

"Fucking--! Agh!" he shouts, frustrated, fighting me. When he stops struggling long enough to gift me with a livid glare, I dive forward, kissing him hard. Oh, sweet Force his mouth immediately responds under mine, even as a surprised grunt gets by. Our teeth clash and I'm sure I am bruising his lips but I cannot stop. It is good, so good after all this time. So hot and sweet, and now his hands are tugging at my sleeves, scrabbling. Pulling. His mouth is ravaging mine, returning my blatant hunger.

I press him into the wall with my body. He makes a grateful, stunned noise, somewhere between a mewl and a groan, and I let go of his arms long enough to reach down his body, sliding my hands around the backs of his thighs and pulling him up. He wraps his legs around my hips eagerly and I moan, my anger melting into a pool of warm lust. His arms are wrapped tightly around my neck. My Obi-Wan is now clinging desperately to me, as though he would fall despite my weight holding him firmly to the wall.

He jerks his mouth away from mine. "Please," he pants, tipping his head back and groaning loudly as I latch onto his throat. "Please." He circles his hips, his thick erection plain and hot against me. It is my undoing. Unbidden, an image comes to me of that Lam person with my Obi-Wan, wringing the same desperate pleas from him.

A growl escapes my throat as I push away, setting Obi-Wan down and stepping back. My breathing is too harsh and if I'm not careful I will plow into him and brand him, claim him, force him to accept that he is mine.

/A Jedi does not act in anger. A Jedi does not act in anger./

He stares, confused. "What? Qui-Gon... what?" He reaches for me, his face flushed, his own breathing as rapid as mine.

I turn away, struggling for calm, my hands clenching and unclenching almost of their own volition. Then it breaks inside me, my need. I can't keep myself from him any longer, and he knows it. When I turn toward him, he is already moving forward. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me hard, his tongue thrusting against mine in a mimicry of sex. Then I am the one scrabbling for him, pulling him to me tightly and whimpering. I try to pull back, to gain distance and consideration, but he will not let me go. When I break the kiss, he simply shifts his focus, latching on to my ear and deftly unfastening my belt and my sash.

"Obi-Wan," I moan, but he ignores me, shoving my tunics out of the way and clamping his teeth onto my nipple. Hot pain sears through me and I shout, gripping the short tail in his hair and jerking his head up.

He smiles.

I kiss him again, out of my mind with need. Between our two sets of hands he is soon naked, thrusting against me and pushing me toward his couch. As we land he reaches over one end of it, producing a bottle of oil. He shoves it into my hand and undoes my leggings, squirming under me, rocking, muttering little pleas. His muttering turns to open moaning as I slick my hand and press inside him, massaging, spreading the oil. Obi-Wan's eyes are slitted, his teeth bared, his hands working in the linens as I work my own inside him. I want to make him swear he will never go back, swear to me that this is it, that he is mine, but I am half-afraid he won't. That keeps me silent. I need him too much right now to stop.

"Now," he cries, an echo to my thoughts. "Now, Master."

I groan, lost: as many times as I have heard that honorific, I swear it has never meant as much to me as it does in this instant. It takes an eternity to move just so, position myself, and then I stop, staring down at him. He is spread beneath me, face contorted with need, watching me, trying to move toward me, closer, or pull me down over him. With a half-roared "Obi-Wan" I bury myself in him, part of me frightened and part of me delighted at the surprised, wide-eyed shout that erupts from him. If he is hurt, once again he hides it: instantly he's writhing beneath me, legs locked behind my back, chanting a litany of grunts and whimpers as his eyes slide closed.

"Harder," he moans. "More, yes."

I lose myself in the sound of his voice, encouraging me. I hear my own voice replying to his chants, "Yes. Yes, Obi-Wan. Mine."

At that word his eyes fly open. Just as I think I have finally gone too far he reaches up, threading his fingers into my hair. "Yes, Master."

"Oh..." I cry out, thrusting as his hand at the small of my back encourages me. "Oh..."

"You," he whispers, reaching down to stroke himself with immediate roughness. "Belong to--you--Qui--ahh--"

His breathless shouts turn mindless as he comes, his legs tightening around me and his body arching up into mine. My own orgasm slams through me, wrenching a scream from me, wordless or articulate, I neither know nor care.

Obi-Wan is smiling now, staring up at me. A sheen of sweat glazes his skin and his eyes are glassy and bright. He is so... I cannot find words. I look away, battling back the anger again that someone else has seen him this way since that night years ago when he told me how he wanted me. Withdrawing from him, I mutter something about cleaning up and move to get off the sleep couch.

"Don't," he says, grabbing my arm suddenly. "Don't hide. Don't run away from me. Can't you understand that this is all I wanted? You, all of you. Not the facade, not the Qui-Gon-in-still-life, I want you." He sits up and puts a hand on my chest. "Your anger is the best thing I've felt in years. I want more of you still. I want your greed and your jealousy, and all of that passion that waits there, that you've stored up for me. Let me have it."

I look down at his hand on me, hot, dry and rough on smooth, damp, cooling skin. "There is so much of it," I warn. "And I must know... you must swear that you will never--"

"No one," he swears immediately. He reaches up and cups my cheek, turning my face toward his. "No one else, I swear."

Silently I go to him again, covering his body with mine, kissing him with the savage greed I have kept contained for so long. I am thrilled to feel him returning it, as though I have awakened the same desperate, naked desire in him. Perhaps he has been hiding it as well. Where I only saw devotion, there lay endless wells of searching, grasping need.

I long to drown in them.

End.