Master Apprentice
Archive
Apperception
|
|
|||
The padawan moved around his shared quarters silently, thoughtful. Air brushed over his body like an invisible glove, like the caress of fingers, like the whisper of hair trailed lightly over bare skin. He was nude, not precisely a rarity, but unusual in this place. Unusual to move so lightly, unfettered by the physical bonds of his clothing and by the psychological bonds his clothing represented. Past the opened door to the patio, a chill rush of air bathing his body. Behind the couch, a brief touch of leather cool and smooth against his thigh.
His quarters, his and his Master's. He might go nude here with impunity, he supposed, even when his Master was at home. He had not done so, however, since his body began to change, bringing with it the shy insecurities of adolescence. Into the small kitchen he went-- he had never stood here naked before, never felt the cold polished metal of the countertop against his belly as he stretched for a cup. Qui-Gon rarely thought of the possibility that his apprentice might be inconvenienced by the difference in their heights; his padawan could levitate objects and perhaps the Master regarded the need to do so as a valuable practice in control.
But he preferred to reach, to feel the firm, comfortable curve of the cup in his hand, hooking his finger through the handle, filling it with cool tea. Too-long steeped, it was bitter in his mouth. The cup was Qui-Gon's favorite, its interior ringed with the stains of tannins from the tea leaves. The blend of tea was the one Qui-Gon preferred.
He sipped, savoring the bitter flavor, curling the cup between his palms as though seeking nonexistent warmth. If he were Qui-Gon, if he were alone with no padawan, he might stand here, so, sipping tea from this cup, choosing to sensitize himself to the Living Force by forsaking clothes, seeking a moment of pure, unencumbered self where he could be Qui-Gon Jinn for a time, without reference to the demands placed upon him by society and circumstance.
No, this was not what he wanted. Not a sense of his Master as a remote entity, untouched and untouchable.
He poured the dregs of the tea out in the sink and rinsed the cup. As he began to set it aside in the drainer, a beam of sun caught the curl of its side and he could see the faintest shadow on its gleaming surface, a faint ghost of oil from the touch of his lip. A trace of himself, left for Qui-Gon's touch. He hesitated in the midst of moving the cup back toward the sink, studying the mark. Barely there. Unnoticeable. A stealthy vestige of himself, left for Qui-Gon's unknowing consumption. He pictured his Master's lip sealing to the lip of the cup, covering the mark, dissolving it away and mingling it with his own essence.
He placed the cup in the drainer with fingers that trembled suddenly.
Some part of himself, touching Qui-Gon's life and mingling with it, changing his Master infinitesimally... Qui-Gon breathing the same air his apprentice had breathed, laying his palm upon the countertop where his padawan's belly had pressed, brushing his thigh against the cabinet that had felt so cold against the young man's bared penis when he stretched for the cup...
He ghosted out of the kitchen, leaving the small, innocent trap lying in wait for his unsuspecting Master. It had only been a delaying tactic, moving to the kitchen first. He trailed his fingers along the top of the couch, imagining the faint wisps of Force that trailed him... his own aura, strongest where he passed most often, perhaps strongest of all in his bed. It made sense, after all... he spent more time there than anywhere else in these rooms, defenses lowered in the oblivion of sleep, slivers of dream leaking through to stain the night with fears, pleasures, passions.
He paused in the doorway of Qui-Gon's rooms, gazing at the wide bed that lay inside. A Master, Qui-Gon was more adept in maintaining his shields while sleeping than a mere apprentice, but the length of years Qui-Gon had spent occupying these rooms left a depth of impression here that overwhelmed the shallower, sharper aura his apprentice had left in his own sleeping compartment.
He stepped inside, pushing the door very nearly shut, an instinctive response to the sensation of watchful presence and to the quiet, subsumed guilt of his own knowledge of what he was doing.
The air felt different here; it felt rich and velvety and serene, felt still and vital. He could feel the jangle of incongruity his own presence caused, the innate rebellion of his unrestful skin and soul chafing against the perfect serenity here. Ripples spread out from his intrusion like water stirred by a stone dropped into a still pond, then returned to him, softened and dulled by reverberation, smoothing over him, transmuting random energy into firm purpose.
He stepped forward, toes sinking into the handwoven rug that lay on the bare stone floor at the edge of the bed. Let his feet settle. Let himself breathe. Qui-Gon. Serenity. Master.
Again the sense of his Master's aura rippled over him, catalyzing shockwaves of energy and sending them pulsing throughout his body. He reached down, smoothing his palm over his belly slowly, the gesture thoughtful, exploratory-- discovering the way his Master's aura charged the touch with novelty, tasting the new flavors of sensation that accompanied his sense of Qui-Gon's being that lingered here. His penis swelled luxuriantly, anticipating his touch.
He stroked it once, channeling it easily in his fist, observing the way the loose tender flesh moved in his palm, watching a glistening droplet form on its tip. He touched that drop with his fingertip, lifting its shimmer to his lips, and painted them with the salty fluid pensively, gazing at Qui-Gon's bed. His Master.
He slid his knee onto the mattress, which was very hard-- it barely dipped under his slight weight, but he savored the feel of it, crept to the center and sank into it, sank into Qui-Gon's aura with almost a sense of sinking into his Master's body. His head rested on Qui-Gon's pillow, indenting its softness, and his skin warmed the coverlet beneath him. He breathed deeply, inhaling Qui-Gon's scent and his sense, hands straying over his belly again, fingertips gliding through fleecy curls, palm clasping the shaft that quivered there, waiting. Wanting.
Eyelids sinking shut, he reached out with his mind, embracing Qui-Gon's aura and letting it fill him. So strong... almost as if his master were present with him. A sigh whispered past his lips, he raised his knees quite simply, enacting his fantasy, an elegant and instinctive gesture that came automatically in response to the sense of near-physical possession.
His own slim thighs lying against his belly and chest, his body open and vulnerable... he sighed, surrendering to phantasm. His hand moved smoothly over the rigid length of his own shaft as though in response to the command of a greater will; he felt the hard mattress yield as though under pressure of a greater weight.
He tasted his moan on his lips, arched his back and let his knees part further, his hand beginning to work in earnest, pumping rhythmically on his narrow belly in time to the rhythm of the fantasies that gripped and pierced him, the phantom who covered him.
"Qui-Gon," he moaned aloud, the name a bittersweet savor, tasting much like the sticky fluid drying on his lips. And then softer, deep in his throat, all his yearning pouring forth in the word. "Master..." His body spasmed in response to the whispered plea, orgasm jetting from his erection in urgent arcs to bathe his narrow chest, legs collapsing, feet slithering across the coverlet that now ruffled in disarray around his face, where the jerking of his body had disturbed the pillows on which he lay.
Across the room the door closed very softly, unnoticed, its gentle click masked by his gasping breaths.
-end-