Master
Apprentice  Archive
Linen & Diamonds
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Senior Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi was bracing himself for ridicule. It wasn't so much the fact that it was a dress he was wearing -- everyone would be wearing one tonight, and he dearly wished he could trace the ancestral Jedi Master who had installed this particular charity event in the Temple annals. He was certain that a bit of backward damnation would do the doubtless demented being good and bring him, her, or it back to his, her, or its senses.
It wasn't so much the dress as the fact that he was in it. He felt... wrong. Indecent almost, even though he had made a point of borrowing what Hetu had claimed was her oldest and most well-worn nightgown, and Hetu weighed at least one and a half times as much as him. And she was taller, so that the dress came to Obi-Wan's ankles... but still, the way his legs touched when he walked made him uneasy. Exposed, and he didn't like the way the soft worn linen fell about his body either.
True, there was ample width in the garment, but it had been through so many washes that it had lost all semblance of shape or colour and moulded itself against his skin in what others would doubtless see as a very becoming way. Personally, he thought it was a blatantly sexual way, and he wasn't happy with it. It just wasn't... wasn't Jedi-like, and the fact that hundreds of other, doubtless uglier Jedi would not be ashamed to tart themselves up for charity tonight did not help.
At least the robe would cover his bare arms. He pulled it over his shoulders and stared at himself in the mirror. That would have to do. As it was, the thin beige embroidery around the hem was feminine enough, and thank the Force the narrow satin border almost disappeared under his robe. And if he told himself a few more times that the V neck of the dress really didn't show more than the V of his standard tunics he might even believe it. Defiantly, he brushed his braid over his shoulder. There would be _no_ ribbons. There would be _no_ mascara. He had a reputation to lose.
At least he had a Master to look up to. Surely Qui-Gon would not stoop so low as to dress himself up in womanly attire and paint his face like a cheap Corellian whore? No, surely not. Hopefully not. Please not, Obi-Wan thought helplessly as he heard rustling and clacking noises from his Master's bedroom.
It was not a matter of respect. Obi-Wan would respect his Master whatever he wore, be it Jedi robes, odd ambassadorial garb or native rags. Or nothing at all. The thought made him blush furiously. It was not about respect. It was about control. It had taken him years to admit to himself that the urgent throbbing feeling he sometimes got at the sight of Qui-Gon's body was indeed that fickle beast known as lust... and... it's no good, Kenobi, he chided himself mentally. You managed to go without it for the best part of your life, survived your teenage years without embarrassing yourself, now don't let your _Master_ of all people make a lusting fool of you.
At least not until you're knighted...
His head turned involuntarily at the swish of his Master's bedroom door, and he saw... nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief, but had hardly enough time to catch his breath back when he heard Qui-Gon's low voice, focused but affectionate, calling to him.
"Padawan, could you lend me a hand please? I keep getting my hair caught in the catch..."
It's just a new hair clasp, Obi-Wan hissed at himself, surely he's just replaced that dingy old leather thing of his with maybe something coloured. My Master does not dress up, my Master does not dress up... sexily...
Obi-Wan's breathing stopped altogether at the sight, and he slumped against the doorframe for support. His Master did dress up. S... sexily.
He did not know where to rest his eyes -- there didn't seem to be a decently safe zone on all of his Master's body. The feet... Qui-Gon's massive long feet were encased in elegant black suede pumps, sturdy but surprisingly high heels easily supporting the man's large frame. Four inches taller, Obi-Wan thought numbly, and the definition these heels gave his calves was just... otherworldly. Smooth curves of hard muscles and perfect pure skin, gentle shades of midnight black stretching up and up and up to where he could just see a black velvet garter peeking through the revealing slit that had presented him with this breathtaking view in the first place.
Split almost all the way to Qui-Gon's slim hips, the slim green dress had sprung open around the big man's easy stance, legs slightly apart, heavy elastic shining forest green stretched over the huge planes and sharp lines of the Master's body. It clung to his slender waist, accentuated by a thin belt made of dazzling clear crystals that scattered the low light of his Master's bedroom in a thousand directions.
The dress was... strapless. How it stayed up around Qui-Gon's broad shoulders was anyone's guess, and Obi-Wan was quite ready to assume Force assistance, seeing as Qui-Gon had so easily managed to sweep away all preconceptions about him. The slinky green material lay snugly around his chest and upper arms, in one wide band that was as much collar as invitation, a ring broken only by the man's upper arms as he was nestling with the fastenings of an elaborate crystal necklace than seemed to drip over his collarbones and chest like pure water.
Ah yes... he kept getting his hair caught in it...? Taking a deep breath, Obi-Wan willed his face back to a serene and slightly less scarlet expression and stepped behind his Master, eyes still averted. How could he look this man in the face any more? Without melting and begging for a touch, anything, here, now? Silently, he lifted Qui-Gon's hair up in both hands, willing himself not to be overwhelmed by the cool silkiness and the faint scent of sandalwood and Qui-Gon...
And then he saw his Master's hands, easily closing the little silver clasp now that his hair was out of the way.
Qui-Gon's nails were a deep, bloody, lust-oozing red.
For all their masculine shortness, they now glistened as if they'd been freshly dipped in young maidens' blood. Or young Padawans' blood. Oh, those fingers on me, over me, in me... Obi-Wan mentally slapped himself and dropped his Master's hair as if it was on fire.
He is only dressing up, Obi. You should know your Master well enough to know he does _everything_ extremely thoroughly. Even if it's transvestitism.
His robe felt at least a dozen degrees too hot, and he quite clearly felt a drop of sweat trickling down his chest and making its way towards his groin as Qui-Gon turned round to face him. Not the mirror. Him.
Oh Force, he's... divine, Obi-Wan thought dimly. He probably thinks he looks silly, but he bears it with a ... Masterly... grace. Unwittingly, Obi-Wan was backing into the wall as Qui-Gon strode towards him... no, strode was definitely not the right word. He... flowed. With a predatory grace, the easy movements of his great muscles just barely discernible under the clinging green fabric. Towering, even more so now in his infernal high heels, Obi-Wan felt crushed even before Qui-Gon had closed in and the poor stricken Padawan had no choice bot to look up into his Master's face, and saw...
Lipstick. Deep dark red lipstick. Glistening moist lips.
And desire.
The sheer force of Qui-Gon's desire hammered into Obi-Wan like a fist, a fist grabbing his throbbing cock and squeezing it almost to be point of pain. Pain, but oh what delicious pain, lost in the feverish pools of Qui-Gon's blue eyes, pressed up against the wall by the Master's warm unyielding strength... he felt his lips parting in a silent plea, and the last thing he saw was Qui-Gon's rare and pure smile before the red velvet descended upon him and he was lost in the greedy smouldering heat of the Master's kiss. Good, so good, were the last words he could think as Qui-Gon kissed the living breath out of him, sliding sticky red lips over his, using his tongue and teeth and beard to devastating effect until Obi-Wan was sure all he was was a screamingly sensitive mouth gasping for breath and release, oh release...
When Qui-Gon did release him, all he could do was slump into the big man's arms. Qui-Gon smiled, then turned his dazed Padawan's face to the full-length mirror.
"Much better, don't you think?"
Obi-Wan stared at the extensive smudge of red around his swollen lips, stared at the glazed expression of pure shimmering lust on his face, stared at the small dark stain at the tip of a very prominent erection under his dress. Stared at the love and lust that shone from Qui-Gon's dark-ringed eyes, the smile framed by smudged lipstick and the thin beard, and found that no amount of disguise could make Qui-Gon any less than what he was. Adorable. And, right now, holding his boneless Padawan with a satisfied and amused expression.
"Y-yeah."
Yes, Master Qui-Gon Jinn was the belle of the ball. As it was, he would have been hard to overlook anyway, now a good ten inches taller than the average Jedi and glittering with bright crystals.
Master Qui-Gon Jinn was also two other things.
Firstly, he was permanently attached to a gorgeous little 'lady' in a floor-length silver gown with a tightly-laced top and a thin greyish tiara residing in the spiky red Padawan cut. The young one's eyes were sultry, ringed with dark grey kohl, and his lips glistened a moist pink as he reached up to kiss Qui-Gon.
Secondly, Master Jinn was almost two hours late.
And he was not about to tell everyone that procuring a decent dress for his Padawan and caring for his make-up had only taken twenty minutes out of that time.
---The End---