Summary: Obi-Wan makes his master into the canvas for his
fantasies.
Feedback: All comments are welcomed. destinaf@hotmail.com
NOTES: This smutty thing is one hundred percent Kimdy's fault
for not only giving me the bunny, but hurling scenarios,
phrases and a title at me in such a way that I couldn't resist!
So she deserves thanks and special credit. Or, alternatively,
you can blame BlackRose and her bunnies, 'cause they started
it.
And as for inspiration...This is the pic that made me adopt the
bunny, and this pose is so featured in this fic (man, I
wish I had artistic talent!!):
http://members.xoom.com/sockii/liam3.jpg I had a
terrible day today, and I need cheering up in the worst
way, so this was my medicine. I hope y'all like it. This one is
for Kim and Beth.
"Body art," Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, looking over the long
list of acceptable tributes to their Sidrian hosts. "That one
might be appropriate."
Qui-Gon looked up from his datapad. "Is there nothing else?" he
asked dubiously.
"Well, let's see. Offering of the second-born child...servitude
of one representative of your choice, or trade of two...various
weapons..."
Qui-Gon crossed the room and stood reading over his padawan's
shoulder as Obi-Wan recited the list of ever more repugnant
activities and offerings.
"I see your point," Qui-Gon murmured, as Obi-Wan reached the
end and looked up at him expectantly.
"So which of us shall it be, Master?" Obi-Wan tried to suppress
the laughter in his voice as his master sighed, a deep,
long-suffering sigh.
"You know as well as I, Obi-Wan, I have no artistic talent. It
will have to be you." Qui-Gon looked at Obi-Wan, whose face was
alight with mischief, and felt a smile forming on his lips.
"Which, I'm sure, was what you intended all along."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Obi-Wan retorted, in
a tone which held no sincerity at all. He pushed past Qui-Gon
into the tiled bathing area, hiding his smile.
Qui-Gon followed and stood watching Obi-Wan as the younger man
lit several glowsticks and placed them strategically around the
blue-tiled room. The flickering light caught and glittered on
the shining tiles, casting strange, brilliant flecks of white
and blue across the room.
"They say natural light is best for such things, Padawan,"
Qui-Gon pointed out mildly.
"Who's doing this, you or me?" Obi-Wan demanded, folding his
arms and arching an eyebrow. Qui-Gon shrugged helplessly.
"Good. Now take off your clothes."
Qui-Gon's eyes twinkled. "All my clothes?"
Obi-Wan didn't flinch. "All of them. This tends to be a little
messy."
"Oh, naturally," said Qui-Gon, already shedding his tunic and
trousers. With a lazy smile on his face, he stepped back into
the 'fresher area and reached up to take hold of the long bar
at the top of the 'fresher.
Obi-Wan found himself transfixed by his master's long, lean
body. Taut muscles flexed temptingly underneath smooth skin of
Qui-Gon's torso, running down into the narrow waist. Below, his
master's -
"Aren't you a little overdressed, Padwan?"
"What? Oh." With a grin, Obi-Wan quickly stripped off boots,
tunic and pants and ran a hand through his hair, eyes gleaming.
His master's eyes raked down his body, possessive, and evidence
he liked what he saw become evident as Qui-Gon's hardness
stirred and rose against his belly.
"Better get started," Qui-Gon said, shifting his hips slightly,
eyes narrowing.
Obi-Wan's grin widened, and he turned his back, deliberately
displaying a tempting, round ass, one hip thrown out and to the
front as he rifled through his art kit. "I'm using the
fluoropaints Bant brought from Temeran on her last visit," he
said, quickly mixing some colors together, letting the Force
guide his choices.
His skin was burning from the heat of Qui-Gon's eyes on him,
and he closed his eyes against the imaginings in his memory, of
a cool tongue against his skin, soothing that blistering,
savage heat in his body...
"Padawan," Qui-Gon growled softly.
Obi-Wan shivered at the low tone, knowing his desire was
shared, as always, by the man behind him. He collected his
paints in one motion, turning back to Qui-Gon and spreading the
supplies across the high counter next to the 'fresher. "Turn
around," he ordered, feasting on the sight of Qui-Gon leaning
forward, muscles tensed against the pull of his body against
the bar.
Slowly, Qui-Gon complied, reaching back up and hanging on to
the bar, arms spread out to the far edge of his reach, creating
a smooth canvas for his artist.
Obi-Wan couldn't resist. His hands found their way onto
Qui-Gon's back, sliding up the spine, fingers apart to cover
all the skin he could reach and touch. Across the shoulder
blades, lingering over the shoulders, slipping under the arms
and snaking around to the chest, to brush across peaking
nipples...
"Paint, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon demanded in a strangled voice.
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan answered, in a sultry and altogether
tempting way. His arms tightened around Qui-Gon for a moment,
and he dropped a kiss against that broad back before
retreating.
Obi-Wan took up a brush made of Temeranian silk and drew its
fine, dry tip down Qui-Gon's skin, producing a shudder of
anticipation. Quickly, he began to paint, using the most vivid
colors he could mix.
The edges of a dark, burned-out sun appeared before him, its
corona blood red and harsh orange, covering one shoulder and
down over the blade. Wisps of angry violet atmosphere curled
and licked down the channel of Qui-Gon's spine, flaring in
circular whorls. Obi-Wan took his fingers and swirled the
paint, stirring the colors together to produce black and deep
blue shadows across the base of the spine. His hand curved
across the edge of one hip, palm flat, stroking down and around
slowly, then moving away to return to its task.
Qui-Gon's breathing became harsh, and his head dropped forward
as the brush tickled its way across the nape of the neck,
illustrating the solar flares streaking from his dying sun.
Gradually, Obi-Wan was running out of skin; his spacescape was
taking on a life of its own, and demanded more room on
Qui-Gon's torso. Taking the box of paints in his hand, he
stepped into the 'fresher and moved around to face Qui-Gon, his
own back pressed to the cool tile. Qui-Gon's head rose, and
fierce eyes fixed on Obi-Wan's for a moment before he leaned
forward, capturing Obi-Wan's mouth in a hungry, claiming kiss.
Obi-Wan moaned against the invading tongue, and with his free
hand, pushed away his master. "Not yet," he pleaded, aware his
words would not bring him much time.
His brush flew across the chest, stopping to flick delicately,
gently across one nipple, making it the center of a bright
supernova. Qui-Gon made a small noise of shredding
self-control, and he moved, writhing under the brush, muscles
straining with the effort of keeping still.
Wispy indigo tendrils of spatial gases twined with soft purples
and electric greens, wafting down across a taut stomach which
caved, twitching, under the bristles. Floating red mists
descended across the hipbones, down...
Obi-Wan's fingers found their way into the red paint, seeking a
hue to match the sensation of heat in his belly, of his own
too-sensitive skin, of the erotic pulse in his throat. He
reached, taking hold of Qui-Gon's cock in one slippery, fluid
motion, and painted its length, even as his head bent and he
took one nipple in his mouth, teeth working slowly, biting
gently.
The explosion of lust was primal, and welcomed, and was all
Obi-Wan could have hoped. One large hand knocked the paint box
from his hand, and he dimly heard it crashing to the tiled
floor, felt paint splatter his bare legs as he was caught and
pulled close with brute force, crushed against his masterpiece,
smeared with passion equal to his own.
Fingers pawed at his neck, pulling him closer, demanding that
he yield, and he lifted his face blindly in surrender. Thorough
lips covered his own, nudging his lips apart, opening him like
a flower to allow a sensual tongue inside, bringing a fleeting
twinge of rapture.
Obi-Wan was lifted, and his hands braced against hard, powerful
shoulders, trailing through slick color. He wrapped his legs
around Qui-Gon's waist as the tip of a hard, needy cock pushed
against him. He bit at the lips devouring him as he was
entered, slowly, painted with desire inside and out. Some sort
of noise, incoherent, made its way from his throat as Qui-Gon
thrust into him, lowering his body by degrees, spreading him to
fill him more deeply.
Waves of color crested against him, sweetly carrying him.
Qui-Gon's hips rolled against him, driving him higher, joining
them more completely. "Qui-Gon...master!" he gasped, but his
need to cry out was swallowed quickly, and the rhythm became
all there was, a rainbow of joy. He shattered against a wall of
white crystal, made perfect by the flaws in his creation, a
part of it, completed by his master's ecstasy.
His master lowered him to the ground with shaking arms, and
held him as they stood together, stunned by the fading power of
their joining.
Gently, Qui-Gon nibbled at Obi-Wan's neck, tasting the sweet
residue of paint. Lips close to his padawan's ear, he
whispered, "Now that's what I call art."
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