A Bit of Obi-Wan

by Hilary (padawanhilary@gonwan.com)

Rating: NC-17

Archive: M-A, Master Jac's. http://jdemorae.slashcity.tv/lightsaberissues/index.html

Series: none

Categories: Q/O, PWP

Feedback: Dying for it, please.

Summary: Qui-Gon observes his padawan. There's a bit of Qui worship in the Obi worship, here.

Spoilers/Warnings: none

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

Notes: This is the companion piece to All That Jinn. I love doing these for Tem-ve's stuff. I think I pick up the slant of her type when I've read her enough.

/.... / Denotes thoughts and bond speak. *...* Denotes emphasis.

Obi-Wan has taken it into his head to cook nerf tonight. Rare, with Alderaanian wine sauce and coriander. Only he doesn't call it "rare," he calls it "pink," and smiles at me in a way that makes me turn that color.

He's stirring the sauce now. More properly, he's beating the living Force out of it. The end of his padawan braid drums against his stomach as he whips that concoction into submission, as though he really wants to make it fill out and fluff up like cream. We don't have enough pots for him to do everything he wants done; they are full of delicately steaming vegetables and tightly covered rice; one of them is preheating for the meat. What's on the stove is nearly everything we own, so for lack of a double boiler he holds the saucepan up, allowing the ambient heat from the red surface to rise and bathe the bottom. It must be tiring but he doesn't show it. He stands in the heat and the steam, holding that pot in midair lest it scorch, stirring madly, as though chefs do it this way all the time.

It all makes me wonder if I missed one of those obscure anniversaries of which he is so fond but to which he will never hold me. He lets me forget so that he can surprise me. I cannot recall if we even celebrate the same anniversaries every year. I shall have to ask him. I think sometimes that he makes them up because when he spoils me like this, I reciprocate by pouring all that love, pride, and humility he infuses me with back into his body. Over and over again.

He is still punishing that sauce, but now the pan is nearly ready for the nerf. Still holding the pot, he takes up the tongs and throws a slab of red, raw meat, crusted with pepper and zest and some other things I've forgotten but he knows perfectly, into the pan. It hisses and pops furiously; steam explodes from it. He blinks in the spiced cloud and smiles at me, then tosses another one on. I feel a faint twinge of guilt that he goes to so much trouble.

He is wearing a large tunic that is a shrieking green color. It is so unabashedly chartreuse that it makes me wonder how my padawan, with his terminal sense of self-consciousness and his minutely detailed taste, could have located the one shade in the galaxy that clashes with beige. I think he has some rationale for that tunic of which I remain ignorant, like the little anniversaries. I can imagine no justification for a shirt that color, unless it is to deliberately make his eyes impossibly, deeply green. No; I know that he would never have considered it like that. The effect the tunic has on his eyes is a delicious side benefit known only to me.

The leggings he has on are my old pajamas, and I can only imagine the way they're barely clinging to his hipbones under the hem of the tunic, scooped low over his stomach. They drop straight to the floor. He's cuffed them three times and they nearly engulf his feet as he walks, unfortunately covering the smooth, white arches. One knee is so threadbare (the one I used to drop to when Master Yoda and I spoke late at night) that it amazes me I can't see skin through it. I find myself wishing I could.

His clothes make him look smaller than he is; an amazing, strong, wiry wisp of Jedi that somehow came to belong to me. He unwittingly makes me feel huge and ungainly next to his grace and quiet, soft strength: an idea that he would first scoff at, then set about disproving it by making me writhe and telling me how fluid I am.

"Hells," he mutters suddenly. He takes the lid off the rice, sets it aside and resumes poking at the meat. "Hotpad," he commands, shaking the tongs at a drawer just out of reach. I hurry to get one for him. He drops the tongs in the pan and takes the pad, wrapping it around the handle of the rice pot. I watch him realize there is no heatproof, cold surface on which he can set the rice, so I toss another pad down for him to put the pot on. He smiles gratefully, then takes the pad in his hand and lays it down, too. He puts the sauce on it-- the sauce he's been holding up since he started whipping.

It is a dance I've seen many times. He enjoys it, though it leaves him frazzled as well as satisfied. At no point does he use his abilities in the Force to augment or assist himself or his sense of timing or his absolutely detailed preparation. He would consider that cheating. I don't think I know anyone else who could pull this off: his head for minutiae carries him effortlessly through culinary ordeals like this one.

This penchant for suddenly coming up with things to do for me is something that I find endearing and humbling. Have I done so much for him?

He's sliding the nerf out of the pan onto a platter. He hands it to me and turns off the stove, then begins to spoon vegetables into a serving bowl. His movements are quick and purposeful. He would look almost childlike in those huge clothes, were it not for the determined bent of his skilled actions. His face is flushed with heat and sheened with steam; his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he packs the rice into a dish as well. He turns and smiles at me suddenly. The pride in his cooking is evident, and deserved. He is working hard, but he doesn't mind. He never does.

In spite of all of this fabulous preparation he's doing, all I can think right now is that he probably smells like steamed pepper and that I can't wait to find out. Perhaps this is why it's easier to simply eat nerf when they serve it at the hall. I like eating it, but I love seeing him make it. The only problem is that watching him cook until he's steamy makes me want to clear the table off and abandon dinner altogether.

Now he's bearing bowls to the table. I lick my lips before I realize I'm doing it. The disheveled effect of his clothing makes him look almost too slender. He's less my padawan now and more my compact, lithe lover. Actually, that's simply my perception. Within him, there is no difference. He throws himself into everything with equal passion: cooking, combat, piloting, sex. How so much energy managed to find its way into a body so tight is something I'll never fully understand.

He bends and leans against the table a moment, arranging things. The shirt pulls taut against his back and buttocks, and the leggings suddenly snug themselves against his thighs. How gratuitous. A wave of amusement trickles through the bond as he mentally catches me staring at him. The next thing I know, he's looking at me funny, for all that he knows he set me up.

"Master...?" He grins and points to the forgotten plate of nerf I'm holding.

I pull back into myself and put the tray down on the table, in the middle of all the other bowls. He's outdone himself this time: a cruet of that complicated sauce, a plate of thick nerf flanks, steamed greens, steamed roots, and rice. Now he's reaching behind him and retrieving a bottle of wine from an ice bucket. I've no idea what it might be, but knowing Obi-Wan and his taste, it's probably sweet and heavy. It won't go with the meat any more than his tunic goes with my old pants, but he has an uncanny ability to break rules successfully. Odd, that.

The excitement is so plain in his eyes that I simply must ask. "All right, Padawan. What did I forget?"

He looks at me blankly. "Forget?"

I lean forward onto the table. "To what do I owe this unbelievable dinner? The anniversary of the first time we had tea together? A commemoration of that time you lost the band for your braid?" I'm teasing him terribly-- I'm sure he'll get his in later.

He smiles, suddenly and brightly. "There's nothing, Master," he says, opening the wine. "I have just been thinking about you lately."

I tilt my head a little. He studies me a moment before he shifts in his seat and opens the wine. He is always thinking about me, as I am about him-- we both feel it, constantly. What an amusing, curious statement for him to make, and yet it warms the bottom of my stomach. I haven't felt so adolescent since I was one.

He pours the wine, then pokes at two pieces of meat in turn before finding one that gives enough to be to my liking. He stabs it and transfers it to my plate. It begins to bleed thinly, juice seeping out of where he ran it through with the serving fork.

It looks fantastic and I appreciate all the hard work he did; still, all I can wonder is if he smells like pepper.

He serves himself, comfortable that I can manage my own vegetables now that he's given me the pinkest possible piece of nerf. I think perhaps it's a little unmasterly to have a taste for something that is still in a state that bleeds. I'm not sure why I enjoy it so well. Now I think I might enjoy it because it amuses him in an exciting, indulgent way. We do that to each other so often now that I don't think of it much.

For all our similarities and exchanges of taste, I will always be amazed by his energy. I can see it, hovering just beneath the surface. His skin is so smooth and light, fairly glowing with all that tightly-reined-in electricity. That tunic does more for him than even I realized: it makes him look more luminous than he is, makes his eyes shine more than should be allowed. His hair is positively red in this light, his braid shining against the livid green backdrop. His hands are so smooth and quick; they are the only thing right now that betrays the fidgeting he tries so hard to control. He looks like some kind of nymph with that otherworldly masculine grace that simply does not exist anywhere else.

He's eating now; the greens are a little stringy, so he has to use his tongue to get a long bit in his mouth before the fork goes in. I let out a helpless little noise.

He looks at me, a wicked smile in his eyes, and deliberately slips his tongue out and along the fork as he pulls it from between his lips.

"If you don't stop that," I tell him, "neither of us will finish the meal."

He chuckles, and his eyes are radiant. "You haven't even started yet, Master." He points to my plate with its lonely seared flank. I forgot about getting vegetables and rice; I forgot about drinking any wine. But he's eating, so I suppose I should put off burying my face in his soft neck for a little while.

Reluctantly I serve myself token amounts of the side dishes; I ladle a bit of sauce over the rice and take a bite. It is, of course, outstanding. Delicate and savory, creamy, perfect. I stab the meat and cut a piece off; it nearly falls apart under my fork and the knife slides into it as though it were a pudding. It is dark and wet inside, and even at the corner where it's completely seared it's still unbelievably tender. The spicy, smoky flavor of it reminds me of him standing over the stove in all that steam. I can feel myself reacting to the image. Oh, Force help me if I end up with an erection every time they serve nerf in the dining hall.

We eat in silence. He's fidgeting a little less than usual tonight, and I seem to be fidgeting more, trying to hide my growing arousal at his cooking, of all things. I want to dedicate myself to the meal but it really is the fact that he went to so much trouble that makes me want him. I sip at my wine, watching him, trying not to plow through the food so I can get to him faster.

Unbidden, that image of him working in a wet, spicy cloud comes back to me. I can't stand it any longer. I reach across the corner of the table and lay my hand on his wrist as he's reaching for his wine again. I stroke his skin with my thumb, feeling how surprisingly cool and smooth it is. "I don't really want to eat right now," I say when he looks up.

He smiles, unsurprised. "Really." His hand continues going for his wine and I let go of his wrist. He stares at me while he drinks, then he puts the glass down and pushes his chair back.

The suppleness of his movement astounds me, always. We rise at the same time and move to my room (which is really a misnomer; it hasn't been only *my* room for a long time). He moves to tug his tunic over his head, but I stop him.

"I think I rather like the tunic on," I tell him, and he smiles mischievously. If I wouldn't miss his skin so much, I would probably try to make love with him dressed like this. There is something undeniably tender about how small he looks in my huge, floppy pants, even though the heat between us is carnal and anything but sweet.

"Like this, do you?" he says huskily, and begins to undress me. He moves with the same satin efficiency he did in the kitchen, dispatching clothes until there's nothing left. For good measure, he unties my hair and musses it a little, then smiles at the leather thong.

"We should have anniversaries for this thing," he grins. "That would have been what, a dozen holidays by now?"

I smile then, broadly. "That's an extraordinarily sturdy piece of leather, Padawan. I'll have you know I got that the month I got you."

To my pleasure, his eyes widen and soften. He swarms into my arms, pulling me down for a long kiss. He tastes of wine and spices and sauce: better than anything he prepared, better yet than I could have imagined. Suddenly all of his bound-up energy is breaking loose between us. I can feel it spilling over me like the steam in the kitchen.

The thought reminds me of what started this tonight. I break the kiss almost impatiently and tuck my face into the crook of neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply. Yes, he came away smelling like spiced smoke, pungent and warm. I part my lips and taste him; the sheen of heat over his skin left him lightly salty. I bite softly, rewarded with a groan as he squirms and thrusts against my thigh.

I continue lapping at his neck delicately, tasting and nibbling, and he is chuckling quietly in between moans. Oh, I *have* been set up, the devious little imp. I sink my teeth in a little harder, and his soft laugh dissolves into a grunt of pleasure, punctuated by a sharp thrust of hip as he wraps one leg around mine. The shift of loose cloth over my hardness reminds me I have an unfair advantage here-- or disadvantage, perhaps.

I cup his head in my hands, feeling the wiry brush of short hair at the back of his skull. His eyes are bright with questioning need, his soft, pink lips moist and parted with uneven breathing. I descend over him quickly, kissing hungrily. He is the one making helpless noises now, clutching at my shoulders, and I can feel how excited he is that his little nerf steak plot worked so efficiently.

I slip my hands down over his throat, feeling how utterly soft he is, all that energy thrumming just where I cannot touch it. I reach the tunic and dip my fingers under the neck of it. "Mmf," he says into my kiss, so I shift farther down and brush a nipple through the soft fabric, sliding the material over his skin. He's moving constantly now, wriggling almost unbearably. If he doesn't quit moving against me like that--

I set him away from me and stare at him. He is breathing hard, though we've barely begun. I slip my hands under the front of the tunic, sliding it up, baring an expanse of smooth, white skin. My wrists hold the fabric up as my fingers find his nipples, stroking and pinching. He tips his head back, exposing more soft, white skin. So tempting, but I have other goals in mind.

That drape of pants that is clinging for dear life to his hipbones, endearing as it is, has to go. I trail my fingertips down his stomach, relishing his gasp and the faint twitch under my hands. He's amazingly ticklish, something I seldom exploit. I have no intention of doing it now. I tug once at the tie on those pants and they catch amusingly on his firmly erect cock, then with one more pull, fall into a ruffled puddle of linen over his feet.

I glance up at him, thoroughly surprised. He's looking at me, expectant, amused, thrilled, satisfied by my reaction, unbearably hard.

He's shaved himself completely neat.

It seems to be one more thing he thought to surprise me with, and it is perfect. I touch, delicately cupping my fingers under his sac, and he gasps. I can only imagine how sensitive that newly naked skin must be, immediately around the base of his cock, around his balls, now tight and warm. I sink to my knees in front of him, dimly registering him gasping again and then making a small noise.

I cup his firm, perfect ass in my hands and pull him closer, nuzzling his hip. My mouth finds the pale mole there, a break in the satiny perfection of his skin. I love that mole. I swirl my tongue around it, then move my hands to grasp his hips. He's trying to thrust himself playfully toward my hair. Oh, no. I get to play first.

As I mouth the skin ever closer to his taut erection, I am utterly pleased by the feel of smooth, hairless skin under my tongue. There is nothing to tickle my cheek as I rub it along his length, and when I stroke my beard against the soft skin that used to be covered with thick, russet curls, he lets out a shuddering moan.

I kiss that tender skin, not quite touching where he wants me to. Everything is perfectly smooth and completely different.

I press my hands against the front of his hips, pushing him back toward the bed, following him on my knees. He shuffles that way until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he falls onto it, flinging himself out flat with his feet still on the floor. This way, I don't have to worry about his knees buckling, or him tiring out while he tries to hold his balance.

Smooth... I can't believe how smooth everything is. He must have spent a lot of time. "What made you decide to do this?" I ask him, pushing his legs farther apart and nuzzling the inner corner of thigh, then kissing enthusiastically.

I get a surprisingly coherent answer. "Just-- mmmwanted something-- ohhh. Different. Qui-Gon--"

I stop and raise my head. "Yes?"

He tips his head up beckons to me, pleading with his eyes.

"No." I keep licking and kissing, circling his balls and nudging them but mostly avoiding them. He falls back, groaning. I'm paying more attention to the skin around them, which I have discovered makes him writhe as much as anything. He's gripping the bedclothes and making impatient and happy noises, alternately grinding his hips down toward me and scooting closer to the edge of the bed.

"You're dr-- ahhh... driving me crazy."

I grip the base of his cock and sink my mouth onto it, meeting my hand with my lips, then drawing up slowly. With my other hand, I am petting and stroking that freshly-shaven skin. Suddenly, he has gone completely still-- is holding his breath, in fact. When my mouth releases him, he lets the air out of his lungs in a great sighing rush. I do it again, and again, slowly-- very slowly-- and he's trying to buck and thrust, but I'm not giving him much to work with.

I had forgotten about my own ache until he starts talking.

"I want you, please-- stop teasing me and fuck me already. Master-- Qui-Gon-- damn it... come here, please!"

The cursing and pleading is too much to resist. I climb over him onto the bed, fumbling in a drawer. We hate this part, when we're both holding our breath because preparation takes too long. I return to him triumphant, a bottle in my hand, already open. I drizzle some of it over his hardness, and he gasps and twitches at the feel of it. I slick myself with it and grit my teeth, moaning through them. He's watching me, breathing quietly but quickly, waiting. As an afterthought, I coat my hand with more oil and slide my fingers over his sac and around it, and if I thought it was soft before, now it's beyond description. His breath is catching in his throat, and I tuck one finger inside him gently, watching him. He hisses out an expletive and bears down on my hand.

"Stop-- that-- just-- ahhgh."

So I pull my hand away and position myself just against him. I *watch* him wish that he were on top, or that he could at least push off against the headboard. He's tugging on the blanket again, trying to get enough purchase to push himself onto me. I lean down over him and press inside gently, bracing myself over him on my elbows. I am so much bigger than he is that I worry about crushing him; he likes it though. He's wrapping his arms around my neck and his legs around my hips and kissing me, his tongue mimicking my movements inside him. He is writhing up into me, supplementing my movements (and I'm trying so hard to go slowly) with little twisting circles. Sometimes I think if I didn't hold him down, he'd never be still long enough for us to make love.

It's too much-- he's so hot under me, every little movement and brush of skin setting off nerve endings, especially when I bury myself in him to pull back out again. His hands are digging into the muscles of my back, and then he's gripping my hips, trying to get me farther inside, faster, but now I *am* thrusting, fast and hard, trying to meet our need. I drop my forehead to the bed, biting at his neck, and that's it. He's almost shouting my name, then I can feel him tense all over and jerk under me, spilling between us.

That's it for me, too. Feeling him tense pushes me over, and I grip his shoulders and thrust once more, breathing harshly into his neck, making my own steam as I come into him, groaning raggedly and loudly.

When my breathing calms, I realize I must be squashing him. I move to roll off, but he holds me there, not letting go with his arms or legs. He makes a contented noise and kisses the side of my neck. If I stay here much longer, I won't have the energy to raise my head, let alone roll off of him.

"You didn't eat very much," he teases me. "Would you like a bit more nerf?"

I chuckle into the mattress, then to my own surprise I find I *am* able to lift my head. I look at him grinning up at me, all that astounding energy back in place so quickly.

"I'd rather have a bit more Obi-Wan," I tell him, and he wriggles under me, chuckling.

"Served."

End.