Master
Apprentice  Archive
Curious Young Body
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Archive: M_A, Master Jac's and ask me.
Series: none
Categories: AU with scintillating weirdness. Q/O.
Feedback: Dying for it, please.
Summary: Obi-Wan finds his morphogenic field as bothered by the empathic inhabitants of Serletic as Qui-Gon's originally was by the crystals of the Q'nat. It helps to have read Curious Old Body.
Spoilers/Warnings: Post-TPM, AU Naboo ending.
Disclaimers: Someday I intend to use my own beloved, beautiful characters to write for fame, fortune and glory. Today is not that day.
Notes: Sequel to COB, which Tem-ve handed to me wholesale. Special (*special*) thanks to Tem-ve, for spider webs, ivy leaves (what inspiration!) and encouragement on warm whipped cream. It has been most intimidating . . .
And a nod to Matchbox 20.
/.... / Denotes thoughts and bond speak. *...* Denotes emphasis.
After the second day on the planet, though, he realized that the natives' metaphysical emissions were damping his Force abilities somewhat. Qui-Gon seemed unperturbed, but then he was shielding like a hovertank. Obi-Wan wished he had his master's skill as he rubbed the spot in the middle of his forehead, feeling a headache coming on.
/Padawan?/ Qui-Gon murmured through the bond, and Obi-Wan winced.
"Please," he said, pained suddenly by the bright flash of sharpness behind his eyes. "Not so loudly, Master."
Qui-Gon laid a concerned hand on his padawan's shoulder. Looking closely at Obi-Wan, he gauged that they probably would have to pull a shielding device from the ship or neither of them would sleep that night.
They were on their way back to their temporary quarters, winding through the soft, flexible halls that made up the Main Palace. Obi-Wan thought fuzzily through the increasing headache that every time he walked through these halls, they reminded him more of the rodent housings that the crèche maintained to teach the smaller Initiates compassion and responsibility for other life forms.
As the master/padawan team rounded a curve in the hallway, Obi-Wan was upset with a wave of dizziness that nearly sent him careening into one of the rather al dente walls. He raised a hand to steady himself and found his shoulders firmly gripped by his master's large, steady hands.
"Can you shield more heavily?" Qui-Gon asked him, valiantly keeping the worry out of his voice.
Obi-Wan tried and was nearly overwhelmed with a sickening sensation, a vortex-like shift in his equilibrium. "No," he choked out, feeling distinctly ill. "I-- uhm." He swallowed rising bile, putting a hand instinctively over his stomach, then his mouth. "I need to--"
But Qui-Gon was already bearing him through the halls, rapidly, to their rooms.
Obi-Wan would not allow himself to be cosseted through his own weakness of stomach. He resolutely locked the 'fresher door behind him as he darted in. He decided in that moment that he hated the roundness of all the rooms, hated the softness of the door, hated even more that his master apparently felt obliged to hover over him and hold his braid. He threw up his dinner into the glossy, metallic oval hole in the floor that was the toilet, kneeling over it, glad at least that he didn't have to hold his balance. As much as he disliked the squashy feel of most of the features of the buildings on this planet, he was grateful now that the floor accepted his knees without complaint, and softly.
"Obi-Wan?" the muffled voice came from outside the door, and Obi-Wan felt a hot flush of bright crimson in his face at the thought that his master had been waiting, listening for something other than retching.
"Fine," he lied cheerfully, grimacing at the thick sound of his voice and the lancing pain in his head. He pressed the button that sent the contents of the loo mercifully and quickly away, then braced himself with one hand, preparing to rise. He froze, staring at the hand splayed flat on the floor.
It was dark purple.
Jerking his hand up as though it had touched something awful rather than become such, he recoiled, tumbling backwards with a muffled thump against the wall behind him.
"Obi-Wan!" his master called now, firmly, and tried the door. "I *know* you really don't expect me to let this lock keep--"
"Master, no, please!" Obi-Wan nearly shouted around the sick, achy feeling in his throat, wobbling to his feet and staring into what passed for a mirror. It was a dark, polished glass, more black than silver, but it showed him plainly what he needed to see. Not that he wanted to.
His hair that had been spiky and russet-colored was now a pale blue-gray, sagging limply against his head. His scalp felt ticklish and overly sensitive-- his hair seemed to be growing at a highly accelerated pace. It wasn't visible growth, but he could already see that it was longer than it had been. Eyes wide in shock, he took in the thinness of his neck-- not only that, but the *longness* of it-- good great Force, his *neck* was longer than it had been. He stared at his chest and saw nothing bulging or creeping out from under his tunic, but in his own stunned horror he couldn't resist tearing the tunic away.
The skin on his shoulders started out the color of his own flesh and darkened down his arms and torso to a deep violet hue, leaving his arms ending in a half-leafy, half-leathery texture. His hands broadened and flattened even as he gaped at them until he was staring at two paddle-like appendages, fingers still individual but broadening to roughly five centimeters across, and paper thin. He wiggled them in consternation and barked out a laugh.
Unable to tolerate it any longer, Qui-Gon Force-picked the lock on the 'fresher door and burst through. His eyes rested heavily on the toilet first, then Obi-Wan, standing in boots, leggings, and at least half a body that didn't belong to him.
"Master," Obi-Wan said almost mournfully, and his voice was thick and sibilant. He tried to roll his tongue around the roof of his mouth to work up moisture, but it felt weird. He turned to the mirror in a kind of wonder-turned-resignation and stuck his tongue out-- or rather, stretched it. It was about ten centimeters too long, and at least three not wide enough. It had gone the same color as his hair. Retracting it, he looked in mute helplessness at Qui-Gon.
Qui-Gon's expression was neither horrified nor stunned. Suspiciously, Obi-Wan reckoned it was something more like relieved.
"I've been wondering if this would happen," Qui-Gon said, his voice low and normal.
Obi-Wan hissed resentfully, "I hate this Sith-damned planet." Giving up on trying to get his mouth speakably wet from the inside, he bent over the very low tap on the sink, turned it on and moved to scoop water into his mouth. At the sight of his new hand he stopped, then bent and stuck his mouth under the water flow, letting it slide into his cheek rather than gathering it with his tongue. Oh, everything was just *wrong.* He rinsed his mouth and spat, getting water all over his chin and longish neck. Impatiently he swiped at the water with his forearm and turned to face his master.
Qui-Gon stepped close. "Obi-Wan," he soothed, gripping his padawan's arms gently even as the younger man tried to jerk away, "You remember what happened on Tmia. We're too closely bonded for that to have gone without repercussions. It had to have leaked over. We talked about it."
Obi-Wan wanted to speak but his tongue was alien and dry. /But this-- this is different. It's *awful,*/ he sent, ignoring the quicksilver pain in his eyes and head. /I mean-- *look* at me./ To illustrate, he flapped his hands-turned-leaves at his master. /How the hell does something like this happen?/
Qui-Gon suppressed what he knew would be a most unappreciated smile and said, "Padawan my love, you seemed so much more understanding when it was me. I'd never allow anyone else to speak so ill of you." He stroked his padawan's lengthening hair, incredibly soft and now down to his ears. He was looking over the changes with an almost critical eye, as though he were comparing notes to his own erstwhile transformation.
"I wonder where the gills are," he murmured to himself, wheeling Obi-Wan around to look at his back, and Obi-Wan yanked his arm out of Qui-Gon's hand.
"You can't *possibly* be considering--!" he snapped, and clenched his teeth at the sound of his own voice, now a breathy, hissing vibration through his lips.
Now Qui-Gon *did* smile, but he said, "Padawan, I think you should have some tea. Let's talk about this."
Obi-Wan spluttered as best he could around the weirdness in his mouth. "Tea? *Tea,* Qui-Gon?"
Persistently, Qui-Gon grasped his elbow and steered him out of the 'fresher. "Tea, Obi-Wan."
"It tastes miserable," he complained, idly rubbing his flat, purple hand along one flank through his leggings.
"It's *your* tea," Qui-Gon pointed out. "The box with the extra bits of sastra flowers in it."
"I know," Obi-Wan gritted out impatiently, wondering how it was that he managed to turn even long vowels into seething noises. "Regardless, Master, it tastes like-- I don't know what. Like I should rather be licking a ronto."
Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows and stared. "Interesting."
Obi-Wan's mouth dropped open. "*IN*teresting? Sith hells, Qui-Gon!" He rose and began to pace agitatedly, rubbing the side of his thigh again. It ached strangely, and he was not altogether sure he wanted to know why. "Did you have stuff change in your mouth? Did you have to rethink the way you spoke? *Listen* to me. This is *different,* I'm telling you!"
Qui-Gon sipped from his mug calmly. "Padawan, if you tell me one more time how different this is, I shall put you into a long meditation. Two, actually, back to back: one on the dangers of double standards, and one on the importance of self-appreciation based on things having nothing to do with appearance."
He stood and moved toward Obi-Wan, who had fallen to a sullen stillness, standing with one leg cocked out from his body and his forearms crossed across his bare, lavender-purple chest. His flat fingers gripped his biceps, rippling in tension and nervousness. He tossed his head to get the hair out of his way: it was down to his shoulders now, and irritating him. It floated like spider webs, settling after a second or two right back to where it had been.
Qui-Gon leaned down slightly, his eyes boring into his padawan's, his demeanor steeped in decades of steady Jedi resolve. "Now you listen to me," he said, but gently. "When this happened to me, I was just as terrified, just as embarrassed as you, possibly more so. Ah!" He raised a finger as Obi-Wan's mouth opened to form a protest. "You remember what you told me?"
Obi-Wan's jaw flexed as he glared petulantly at the floor. "Yeah."
"Say it."
Pouting like a child being forced to apologize to a smug younger sibling, Obi-Wan uttered, "I said it was you all the time, that I loved you anyway. But--"
"Ah--" Qui-Gon cut him off again. "I believe you also said you couldn't wait to see how those ridges felt on your own stomach," he added, and allowed a teasing note to creep into his voice as he glided his fingertips across Obi-Wan's flat, muscular, albeit purple torso.
Obi-Wan flinched away a little, but he didn't escape that light touch. "I couldn't possibly have known--" He faltered, closing his eyes as Qui-Gon trailed his fingers upward. "You didn't want me to--" He gave up trying to explain how Qui-Gon's experience had gone and said instead, "I don't want to."
Qui-Gon circled around behind him and leaned forward, whispering into Obi-Wan's ear, "I understand, if you *really* don't want to." He combed his fingers through the silky, gossamer hair that matched his lover's eyes and observed the involuntary shudder.
"Mmh," Obi-Wan half-sighed, half-grunted, and when Qui-Gon raked his fingers through the blue-gray hair from forehead to nape, he succumbed briefly to the sparkling, ticklish pleasure radiating from his scalp. His scalp. Shaking his head, he stepped forward, away from his master.
"This is just-- I can't-- Master, that's my *hair,* that's not *supposed* to be an erogenous zone."
The master smiled, openly amused, and sent images through the bond of all the nights in which fantastic sex had started with Obi-Wan brushing his master's hair. Disconcerted, the padawan flapped his hand and turned away. "It's not the same," he protested, then tried once more to work up spit in a mouth that was perpetually dry and *so* not his.
Qui-Gon shrugged. "Perhaps if you sleep--"
Obi-Wan laughed shortly. "Oh, right, Master. That sounds good. Sleep." He rolled his eyes and rubbed one broad, violet hand over his eyes, noting vaguely how cool it felt, and how smooth, like ivy leaves on the shaded side of an archaic stone structure. "You weren't exactly serene when this happened the first time, Master," he pointed out, as a last line of defense for his own fading, resigned shock.
"No. But *you* were."
The completely bothered padawan stared at his master and had no argument. He put his cool, satiny hand on his forehead, trying to ease the headache that still rested in the middle of it.
Qui-Gon stepped close again, and encouraged Obi-Wan toward the low pallet in the corner of the room. "Now. Let's talk about this, and see what we can come up with."
Obi-Wan sat heavily, but the bed was too low to be comfortable in a sitting position. He flattened himself out, allowing his master to gather him into his arms. "How could this happen?" he asked, staring at his floppy hand on his master's broad chest.
Qui-Gon sighed. "Between the deep training bond, and our empathy for each other, and this planet's odd vibrational effect. perhaps it's some kind of electrical interference. " he trailed off, knowing his speculations were pretty pathetic. Besides, his padawan really didn't want to know how it had happened: he wanted to know how it would go away. It had been all he himself could think about on Tmia, until Obi-Wan had seduced him in spite of himself, relaxing him straight out of the mutation.
He found himself thoroughly enjoying that memory, remembering how lovely those light green ridges had felt along his stomach when Obi-Wan--
"Master," Obi-Wan hissed quietly, "quit thinking about it. I don't think I can." But he was pressed closely enough to Qui-Gon's body that they could both feel his quickening erection at the memories, and the possibilities. He shifted his hips forward. "Well. Maybe I can," he corrected, and flushed radiantly.
Immediately Qui-Gon shifted and moved over his padawan, straddling his thighs. His expression was eager and admiring: it was evident he had only been awaiting the word.
He plunged his hands into that off-blue hair that wasn't quite hair, lifting Obi-Wan's head so that he could spread the delicate spiderweb strands over the pillow. By now, it was a length that would have reached the middle of his back. "It's . *so* soft, Obi-Wan," he said, awed, lifting a section of it and combing his fingers through it, allowing it to float back down to the bed. Obi-Wan fairly purred, closing his eyes.
Experimentally, Qui-Gon took the padawan braid and rubbed it between his fingers and thumb. He got the same reaction, confirming his suspicion that the locks had remade themselves into actual living cells capable of transmitting sensation. /And a lot of it, / he added mentally, petting a segment of it and watching Obi-Wan angle his head back in pleasure.
He leaned down to that long, graceful neck and kissed it softly, his beard teasing the skin delicately. Obi-Wan made a humming noise that sounded surpr isingly guttural considering the way that long tongue he sported pitched his words up. Obi-Wan's eyes flew open as he and his master both thought about his tongue-- the same thing, at the same time. For the first time since they had been on this planet, Obi-Wan smiled wickedly. He made to rise, but Qui-Gon pressed him back down.
"Later," he promised. Oh yes, promised. He definitely wanted to see that thought brought to actuality. He pressed his aching erection down into Obi-Wan's thigh, and the thigh pushed upward, applying only teasing pressure.
He kissed Obi-Wan then, nibbling gently, mindful of the fact that his padawan still wasn't sure what to do with that tongue. How strange it must be to have something important, so *personal,* be changed so fundamentally. He licked Obi-Wan's lips lightly, asking entrance, and after a moment, he got it.
Obi-Wan hesitantly tested the kiss with the tip of his tongue. It felt no different to him, though Qui-Gon was a little surprised to notice the dry smoothness of it, like the skin of an apple.
Obi-Wan turned his face away. "I can't do this if you're going to analyze everything," he protested, frustrated. He turned back toward Qui-Gon and stared up at him.
"Your eyes," his master told him, "have turned orange."
Obi-Wan shut them. "That's it. I can't. Just never mind. Don't--" he warned helplessly as his lover began to stroke his living hair, which by now was spilling over the edge of the bed. He groaned in his throat as the bright sensation shot along his mane and straight to his erection.
"Hmm?" Qui-Gon smiled, combing his fingers through again, wondering whether this alone would trigger orgasm if he kept it up long enough. But he bent his head and kissed Obi-Wan again, stopping his own speculations for a while as that long tongue slid against his almost pleadingly. Obi-Wan's hands found his shoulders and gripped them, and Qui-Gon was surprised at the strength in the wide fingers. He shouldn't have been, he realized: this was his very skilled, very adept padawan.
Obi-Wan had begun to thrust his hips upward in spite of himself, so Qui-Gon sat upright and tugged off his tunics. It registered with him slowly that the hips shifting under his were not. aiming correctly. He looked down at the man below him. The blue-gray hair was shimmering and lengthening, pale blue tongue swiping at lips out of habit rather than actual ability to moisten. His arms and torso remained that shifting pale-to-purple, hands broad and flat and digging into the covers on the pallet as his hips ground upward-- but not trying to contact his erection to Qui-Gon's hips. No, the focus was different. Sideways.
Obi-Wan protested wordlessly as Qui-Gon climbed off the pallet. He unbuckled his padawan's boots, tugged them off, removed his socks. No change there. Large hands slid up slender legs toward the ties at the waistband of the leggings, and Obi-Wan moaned and pushed his hips upward as his master's hands contacted his erection briefly through the cloth. But then Qui-Gon was already pulling off the leggings and discarding them.
He smiled, supremely satisfied to find what he had suspected. Apparently, the only similarity to the mutative effect in their shared life forces -- the similarity he had hoped for -- was the set of startlingly erotic ridges that Obi-Wan had been so delighted with. These were horizontal, rippling across Obi-Wan's outer thigh, faintly green and with a muted sheen to them. He shivered as he knelt at the side of the bed, encouraging Obi-Wan to his side and facing away from Qui-Gon, remembering the utterly glorious feelings these gill-like structures provided. For the first time since they had become involved sexually, Qui-Gon paid no attention to his padawan's luscious ass being presented to him. Obi-Wan craned his long neck to look at him questioningly through orange eyes, then cried out, shaking as Qui-Gon dove for the topmost fold along Obi-Wan's upper flank.
Obi-Wan reached down and curled his hand tightly around Qui-Gon's in reaction to the sensual explosion. He had never dreamed anything could feel so otherworldly. Intense, hot pleasure spiraled from that spot just below his hip, careening around his thigh, referring everywhere on his leg at once and culminating in his throbbing, now-painfully hard cock. He squirmed under those moving, bearded lips and the tongue that slid into the folds, but Qui-Gon's strong hands held him down, pinning his waist and the narrow stretch of leg between the ridges and his knee. The master devoured, remembering the sensations clearly, feeling them faintly through the bond, and was determined Obi-Wan was going to come to appreciate the appendages. Besides, it tasted *fantastic.*
The ridged skin didn't have an apex as Qui-Gon's had, but it didn't matter. He slowly slid his tongue along the ridge in the center of the row, nipping with his lips, and Obi-Wan's breathing hitched erratically as he bucked under those hands. Qui-Gon made a pass back down in the other direction, letting his beard drag along the ripples under it. Abruptly Obi-Wan convulsed and came, one hand squeezing his master's hand hard as a sharp, hissing shout escaped him. A yellow flash erupted behind his eyes and he reeled a moment, panting hoarsely. Qui-Gon moved onto the bed, smiling a great, broad smile generally reserved for galaxy-changing events. As soon as Obi-Wan could see properly, he noted that his master looked positively smug.
Giving no quarter, Qui-Gon descended over his padawan, kissing ravenously, drawing the other's long tongue into his mouth. Obi-Wan slipped one cool, slick hand over the broad chest, past the light furring of dark and silver hair to a nipple. Qui-Gon gasped, pulling air out of the kiss as a grip that was flat and otherwise indescribable closed over his skin. Obi-Wan grinned and pushed his hand lower, unlacing the trousers with surprising deftness and pushing them out of the way.
When the paddled fingers closed over Qui-Gon's hardness, he groaned loudly and bucked into them. The grip of that hand rippled over him like water. There was no friction, just tight fluttering over the surface. He gritted his teeth and hissed in a breath when Obi-Wan moved over him, never removing his hand, only turning it and shifting.
His breath caught as his apprentice moved between his legs, both of them gasping as that long blue-gray hair was dragged over his skin and then tugged impatiently out of the way. Qui-Gon watched, rapt, as Obi-Wan's tangerine stare met his, and he slithered his long, pale tongue out and replaced his hand with it. Astounded, Qui-Gon stared as the long tongue wrapped itself around his girth, seeming to thin and stretch, and then Obi-Wan's mouth closed over him, sucking.
Qui-Gon's shout was muffled in the doughy walls, thankfully. Obi-Wan was relentless now, using that long tongue to amazing, blinding advantage. Immediately Qui-Gon's control slid away and he was gripping Obi-Wan's head, stroking, petting-- he'd forgotten all about the hair until one of those bone-racking moans descended over his erection with the tongue. Then he was winding his fingers in the spidery locks, tugging gently, fondling the padawan braid like the erogenous zone it had become. He draped his leg over Obi-Wan's and his calf came into contact with the ridges on that flank. Immediately the younger man was groaning as he twisted sideways, looking for more stimulation for the soft ridges and trying to grind his erection into the bed at the same time. It undid Qui-Gon completely and he exploded into Obi-Wan's mouth, screaming, his hands in fists in that long, long hair.
Obi-Wan's throat closed over the throbbing cock and he lapped at it, astonished. He tasted the amazingly almond-like flavor that Qui-Gon had exhibited before, and it was wonderful, the perfect thing for his new tongue to do. He rose reluctantly and gasped excitedly as his hair, now easily down to his thighs, slid over Qui-Gon's skin again. He scooped it all up and draped it over one shoulder, leaning over Qui-Gon and kissing him.
/Almondy,/ he sent, thrilled beyond reason, all self-consciousness about his own metamorphosis gone.
/Oh?/ Qui-Gon asked, grinding his hips upward in spite of his recent release, himself unbelievably pleased that Obi-Wan had accepted this so thoroughly. He replied to Obi-Wan's fervent kisses but tasted only his mundane self in Obi-Wan's mouth.
Still kissing, Obi-Wan slid his hands over Qui-Gon's shoulders and gripped them, rocking. He moaned as large fingers strummed gently over the ridges on his thigh. /You-- don't-- ?/ was all he could find for words by way of the question.
Qui-Gon's other hand gripped Obi-Wan's hip and he thrust upward. /Your tongue,/ he responded disjointedly, knowing the off flavor of the tea and the remembered almond warmth of the semen were both manifestations of his padawan's mutated tastebuds.
He was amazed at his own hunger for this new body. Obi-Wan himself was still in reasonably desperate need. He reached under him, knelt up, and gripped Qui-Gon, encouraging the regrowing hardness with the rippling of his fingers.
Qui-Gon let out a shaky breath and slid his hands over Obi-Wan's chest to the nipples that had been forgotten, regretfully, amidst all the other new pleasures. Obi-Wan tossed his head back and exhaled heavily, sending a wave of happy, familiar lust through his master. He pressed upward encouragingly, and Obi-Wan gripped him and positioned himself so that Qui-Gon's bluntness pushed against his opening.
Qui-Gon was completely startled that Obi-Wan could suddenly sink down over him with a cry, sending his master into him to the hilt in one single sweep. His eyes wide, the master moaned out his incredulity at the sensation of being engulfed in warm, moist softness, like tight clouds of whipped cream-- barely there, maddening, exquisite. He reached for his padawan's erection and gripped it, stroking hotly.
Obi-Wan began to rock over him, panting, holding his balance with his wide hands on Qui-Gon's chest. Inside him, explosions of white heat rocketed through him, frying his nerves. He could feel them both trying to form words, Qui-Gon trying to put a name to the sensations and Obi-Wan trying to stave them off, but it was no good; neither was possible. Soon, too soon, Qui-Gon was coming hard, thrusting madly into that fluffy heat. Obi-Wan clenched around him, shouting raggedly and sinking gratefully over the erection buried in him as he came, spraying fuchsia all over Qui-Gon.
When their cries and breathing had steadied, Obi-Wan let out a tattered sigh and collapsed to one side, carefully.
/That's the kind of thing the Dark Side was made for,/ he whispered through the bond, and Qui-Gon laughed.
Obi-Wan woke, cold, turned over, and bumped into his master's back in the small bed. Muzzy from lack of sleep and amazing sex, he snuggled against the wide, muscular expanse, passing his hand over it absently. Then he stopped and held his hand close to his eyes in the darkness.
Yes, it looked as though it had regained its shape. Slipping carefully from the bed, he padded naked to the 'fresher and closed the door, then turned on the light. He stood in front of the mirror and looked into his blue-gray eyes, touching his short, spiked, chestnut padawan hair, lacing his fingers through each other. Then with his fingers he found the place on his thigh, now flat and plain, a smooth expanse of lightly haired skin.
/Ah, well,/ he sighed inwardly, wondering exactly how much he was going to miss that strange patch of skin now that it was gone.
/Padawan?/
Obi-Wan turned off the light and emerged, moving quickly back to the bed.
/Everything back as it should be?/ His master questioned, not really awake.
/Yes, Master,/ Obi-Wan replied, a little regretfully.
Qui-Gon turned over and wrapped his lover up in a warm embrace. /Don't worry, Obi-Wan. I hear on Malastare they are working on magnetic resonance mines with electrical waves. I'm sure I can arrange for us to oversee the initiation of the operation./
Idly, Obi-Wan passed his hand over Qui-Gon's stomach and
smiled.
End.