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The Men Who Stare At... Jedi
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Title: The Men Who Stare At... Jedi
Author: Tem-ve H'syan
Fandom: Star Wars: The Phantom Menace & Men Who Stare at Goats
Pairing: Qui-Gon Jinn/Bill Django/Lyn Cassady
Rating: R
Warnings: Recreational drug use - there are hippies present, so it figures, no?
Notes: Written for Sian's 2010 Con*Strict zinefic, with a prompt of "camping" and "kink".
I will not take any responsibility for that opening sequence, because like Qui-Gon, I dreamed it (except I dreamed Qui-Gon in it, not myself). Like Qui-Gon, I liked it, so it stayed in place and gave Master Jinn a good excuse to wander about an alien planet naked.
The istasium kata is owed wholesale to Ghostwriter's wonderful fic, Kata (in the MA archive), which I hereby highly recommend.
No goats were harmed in the making of this fic, although my grammar and spelling received a few well-aimed nudges from Katbear and Ell, for which I am eternally grateful!
The light is grainy and flesh-tinted and liquid, and the words "1301 Scene" flicker inexplicably in the upper left-hand corner of his field of vision, legible only for brief instants, in an alphabet he can't even pin down, and was that a small yellow box beside the writing? Does it mean anything? To be honest, he's past caring.
A small, dark-haired woman in some kind of tailored uniform presides over the scene, but really, she might as well not be there for all that he gets to see of her - fractions of a second, sweat-smeared half-breaths through the tangle of male limbs.
He's not sure where or what he is; all he knows is he's naked, and it's hot where he is, and there's hands in his hair, hands on his arms, hands clamping down on his wrists, hands clawing at his back and thighs and he's not sure he's even touching the ground with any part of his body. They're greedy, rude and primal in their desire to make contact with him, a small piece of him to each of them, laughter like bright white foam, shining eyes, sweat-matted hair and white teeth in happy mouths, a roiling sea of sun-kissed flesh pummelling him, its waves cresting in hungry hands.
Hands that know no boundaries. Literally, none. The hand that had been on his throat had relented after a while, though whether that had been a result of his own desperate gasp for breath or some sort of wild pleasure-spasm of its owner, he couldn't say. There were hands on his cock too, fighting for the privilege of wrapping around it and squeezing, hard almost to the point of pain. Hands, hard arms, muscled shoulders, and he feels them underneath his thighs, holding him up, holding him spread apart and helpless and loving every moment of it.
There's a hand inside him. Deep inside him. In a place where no fully-grown male hand should by rights fit. But it does. And it feels marvellous where it is. And it rocks back and forth softly, a small insistent pumping rhythm that slowly but surely drowns out all the slapping and scratching and the blatant caresses of the sea of hands. A thick, small, insistent push to his very centre. He feels pumped, stoked, full to exploding, exploding in a messy splash, sticky and shiny and warm, coating all those hands with himself -
The silence is deafening as Qui-Gon jolts awake.
There is ground now: firm, hard ground, uneven and colder than he expects it to be. He sits up, all senses on high alert and starved for input; the sleeping bag is clinging to his back, sweaty.
It's not yet light, though his eyes are quick enough to adapt to the pale pre-dawn light that this planet's single whitish sun is spreading over the landscape. The local plant life, black shading into green and brown as his eyes get accustomed to the low light, is rustling softly in the barely-there breeze. He shivers.
Somewhere in the middle distance, woodland creatures make timid noises in the pre-dawn. Beside him, wrapped snugly in his own one-man bivouac, his Padawan is sleeping soundly, mouth half-open, every fibre of his body relaxed.
Qui-Gon closes his eyes, but the shreds of sun-tanned light are gone, as are the hands. The wild jittery energy is still there though, and it makes him want to do primal, satisfying things like stand up stark naked and roar.
Except the thought of Obi-Wan's stare turning from disoriented to disapproving as he rockets himself into full Jedi awareness mode... yeah, no. Qui-Gon likes the full, pumping feeling coursing through his body. And he has ways and means of dealing with it. Sometimes, the Force is your friend indeed.
As quietly as humanly possible, Qui-Gon extricates himself from the sleeping bag, its soft micro-fibre lining rough on his pounding flesh, and heads for the shadows at the edge of the clearing.
His knees look white against the covering of moss and old leaves that makes up the forest floor. He folds his legs under himself, resting back on his heels, thighs parted wide and back straight, channelling the thick dark chaotic streams of Force from the ground up through his body. He feels it creep up the inside of his thighs, a tingling almost like a physical caress, and he has to follow it with his own hands just to soothe his skin. It's strong here, powerful and riotous and twisting, squirming and churning with sheer life. He lets himself sink into it, leaning his thoughts away from his sleeping Padawan, away from the scant human presence on this alien world, and into its rampant biosphere.
His bones thrum with it, softly at first, then almost painfully, as if they were made out of wood that remembered the days it had been a sapling. Not all that long ago, though how was he to tell? He might be ancient by this planet's standards. He knows, remembers, and lets it slide - the fact that a few of the hairs on his shins are grey already, and that his joints occasionally voice their protest at the regimented abuse that is a Jedi's daily life. The years of accumulated life in him are vibrating at the contact with the planet's life-force; had he been younger, less experienced, he might have been terrified at the intensity.
As it is, he lets himself sink back on his heels, the triangle of his knees and feet a solid base, and it feels like his spine's taking root in the very soil. He opens up, the empty morning sky barely wide enough for it all.
Oh, here it comes. It's easy, ridiculously easy, to imagine it as hands, to conjure up the myriad hands from his dream, climbing their way up his thighs, up his spine, touching and caressing every part of him, every part inside and out, all that is contained in this old, battle-hardened human vessel and every part that is scattered throughout the galaxy, all contained within the one hand that is millions, the one hand that is the Force, and the one that makes his own hands fly to where he needs them most, on his mouth drinking in the sensation of the sky alive with promise, and on his cock, spilling it all on the greedy ground.
When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is a hand. His own; he knows that, though it doesn't quite feel like his own yet. Fingers splayed wide, embraced by the moist moss, he's caught himself on one hand, curled forward around the evidence of his own pleasure. He breathes in deeply, the scents overpowering as they always are immediately after orgasm, his own mingling with the dirty green aroma of the alien world. He runs a hand down his face, as if to check it's all still there. It is; and he can feel his lips spread into a wide grin for all that his mouth demands to be open to catch more breath. He lets it, and then lets it out in a big happy sigh, straightens his back and rises to his full height, feeling winded but utterly, thoroughly alive.
"Impressive."
Qui-Gon's senses slam shut instantly, forcing focus on the source of the voice. About twenty steps away, maybe, close but stealthy. Utterly relaxed. Smiling. Human. Unarmed.
Qui-Gon is naked. Acutely naked. And the human is casually surveying every bit of him. He feels a touch of appreciation through the Force.
"Sure beats the version of the Salute to the Sun they taught me," the stranger says. He pushes himself away from the tree he's been leaning against and it looks oddly like he's letting go of a fellow human. "Man, you're in tune with it," he continues as he comes towards Qui-Gon, his voice quiet but resonant, heavily accented. Makes him sound a little sloppy, but there is something about him that sets Qui-Gon's senses on full alert. Force-sensitives. This far out on the Rim.
"I'm Bill, by the way," the man says and thrusts a hand at Qui-Gon, grasping the Jedi's in a firm grip and shaking it. Qui-Gon returns the favour, and he sees the man's eyebrows rise a fraction. Sharp pale blue eyes flit down Qui-Gon's body, then come up again to meet his own. "And whoever you are, you're a damn tough guy to be doing this out here naked. Good stuff, good stuff, man. Advanced." He drawls that last word, then lets go of Qui-Gon's hand, evidently not at all perturbed by the fact that Qui-Gon's naked and hasn't yet said a word. He senses it.
Time to say a word then. "Qui-Gon Jinn." He sketches a bow. "Sent to your homeworld by the Order of the Jedi for reconnaissance and exploration." He pauses and lets a small smile creep on his face. "I think I may have found more than I'd dared hope for."
"Far out, man." The man's eyes have gone a little rounder, smoothing out the laugh-lines in his tanned skin. Now that the sun is rising, he's beginning to appear in colour. His hair's reddish, though that could just be the emerging light of the planetary sun; underneath that is a washed-out brown much like his own. It's long too, caught in a haphazard braid that flops over one shoulder and clashes with the bright purple shirt the man is wearing. It's tight and hints at a well-kept physique underneath. The man -Bill, that is his name - strokes his short beard with one hand, evidently deep in thought. The familiar-looking bristles under his fingertips make Qui-Gon's face tingle.
Bil grins shakily. "Are you... it's like you're some... avatar or something, of, uh, me. Connected, you know? All connected. Man, you've gone through some weird shit. Great shit, don't get me wrong. Changed your name and all. Qi Gong. I get it, yeah, man, I get it. Awesome."
Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. "I assure you that is the name I was born with, but I understand that it may carry a different meaning to your culture. I for one am relieved that it doesn't mean anything rude here. Makes it easier to communicate." He essays a diplomatic smile and gets a beaming grin in return.
"Man, it's like, you... you wouldn't even need words any more to get through. Like you've broken the plane of... existence, whatever," hands flail talkatively, "and come out the other side, a mind the size of Lake Huron. This is some great stuff you're on. Or I'm on. Doesn't really matter now, does it? We're both Jedi, man, the lot of us. Awesome."
That stops Qui-Gon short. "You're a Jedi?"
The man named Bill raises one hand to his forehead in a sloppy salute, then makes an arcane sign with his fingers before dropping his hand to his side again. "Colonel Bill Django, New Earth Army. At your service... and, you know. The planet's."
"Earth," Qui-Gon repeats. Really, an obvious name for a planet, but one that resonates, given the overwhelming presence of the Living Force here. It makes sense for the natives to develop a sensitivity to it. They are almost certainly not Jedi in the sense he is used to, but he is equally certain that this Bill person has an instinctive grasp of the concept and is only too happy to appropriate Qui-Gon's name for it.
"Earth," Bill repeats solemnly. "Mother Earth. My life support system. As a soldier, I must drink your blue water, live inside your red clay and eat your green skin." He sounds a little more drunk now, visibly sinking into his incantation, eyes drifting closed. "I pray that my boots will always kiss your face and my footsteps match your heartbeat. Carry my body through space and time. You are my connection to the Universe, and all that comes after." He opens his eyes and locks gazes with Qui-Gon. "I am yours and you are mine. I salute you."
Qui-Gon nods sharply, acknowledging the concept underlying the flowery words. "I must say," he says with a soft smile, "it is unusual to be welcomed so calmly to a new planet. Makes for quite a pleasant change, especially as I, uh, would be at a slight disadvantage in terms of armament anyway." He gestures at his naked body and affects self-consciousness.
"I dunno." There's a wicked sparkle in Bill's eyes when they come back up to Qui-Gon's face. "I'd say you've got a pretty formidable weapon right there. And there," and this time he's pointing a finger at Qui-Gon's forehead. "Your chakras are fully loaded, man. I'd love to see what you can do with just your mind. And I'd be a little scared too. I think. Might need a pipe or two to cushion my own brain against the impact, you know?" He mimics smoking, nodding absently all the way. "Lyn's probably ready anyway. Still sleeping off last night's. And I'd love for him to meet you."
"Lyn?" Monosyllabic like Bill; makes sense for a companion. Qui-Gon raises his eyebrows minutely and projects interest.
"Yeah, he's... with me. Sort of my student, kind of thing? He's the best guy in the whole program, and I mean best. He's got more of it than me, if he focuses properly. He can read stuff just like it's books." Bill shrugs. "Awesome. Anyway, I dragged him out here because a mind like that, it gets claustrophobic in the city, you know? Barracks, and the stinky little minds of the ants that call themselves an army? He needs space to breathe, open up, cast his mind around." He opens his arms and performs a theatrical half-turn, utterly unperturbed by the fact that he's now talking away from Qui-Gon. "Lyn can sense all the way to Canada if he puts his mind in the right frame. Great visualiser, Lyn. He's probably seen you coming miles away. Anyway, have some... recreational herbs with us and stuff? Teach us a bit? Would be cool. Fellow Jedi and all."
For all that Bill's mind appears more than a little scattered, there is evidently not a speck of darkness in the man, and Qui-Gon finds himself agreeing much more eagerly than is probably advisable given an alien race. Scattered, my arse. He's like a warped mirror image of me.
"I should probably do something about the sartorial imbalance between us," Qui-Gon essays, "and make sure my own apprentice is all right. But yes, if you'll wait here, I'll be with you shortly."
"You can bring the kid," Bill calls after him, and Qui-Gon winces at how much louder he's gotten. He knows Obi-Wan's a sound sleeper, but he'd rather not get caught having to explain to his prim and proper Padawan how he'd ended up making first contact with the planet's natives while completely naked.
As it turns out, his worries are unfounded; the tell-tale white dot inside Obi-Wan's ear canal speaks as loudly to his trust in his Force senses as it does to the fact that Qui-Gon's probably spent the night communing noisily with the Snoring Side of the Force. At any rate, Obi-Wan's still out cold, one arm cradling his head, the other ever-ready to spring into action, the lightsaber at his hip and the faint thrum of his residual alertness cocooning him safely.
Qui-Gon grabs his clothes, belt, and boots and withdraws quickly, out of the radius of Obi-Wan's aura. He dresses on the go, and is sufficiently presentable in tunics and pants by the time he gets back to where Bill is leaning against his tree.
"Not coming, is he?" Bill claps a hand on Qui-Gon's shoulder and turns to lead the way, not even waiting for a verbal answer.
"He's still at the age where he gladly grabs every extra minute of sleep he can get," Qui-Gon replies somewhat apologetically.
"Ah yes. The innocence of youth and all that crap. Well, no worries about Lyn there. He's a bit younger than us, but old enough to do all the stuff he does, quite legally. And with gusto." Qui-Gon can feel the conspiratorial grin, and files it away for future reference. He's become part of an 'us' in Bill's mind apparently. That was quick.
The walk to Bill and Lyn's base camp is surprisingly short, though the forest's sheer exuberant pathlessness means that within a few minutes they cannot even see the place they've started from. Bill's wearing clunky combat boots, but Qui-Gon's fine with walking barefoot for the time being; the moss is pleasant enough, and none of the deciduous tree debris feels dangerous enough to poke through the soles of his feet. Also, he's pretty certain that kissing the face of the man's mother deity would be acceptable when done with bare flesh as opposed to boots. She seems easy that way.
The camp is remarkably similar to their own, different planets or not; if anything, the native men are a bit more generous with their presence. They have built a fire, the ashes of which are still smoking gently a few steps away from their sleeping-place; there are clothes hung up on a line between two trees, eating implements stacked unevenly inside a large orange vat, and a flimsy green-and-grey fabric tent set up in the small space between several large trees and a tiny stream. It's almost too small to call it a clearing, though the sunlight only just reaches the ground, making the dew on the sparse grass sparkle.
Bill casts a few quick glances around, then rummages among the dirty dishes and comes up with something that looks like a miniature distilling apparatus. He pours out the murky-gold liquid inside it and stomps off to the water to refill it.
"Hold this?" The intricate glass receptacle is cold with the spring water, and almost disappears in Qui-Gon's hands. Bill is fishing for something in one of his numerous pockets, and comes up with a small transparent bag containing a crumbly greenish-brown substance that he proceeds to cram into a small cup at the end of one of the device's tubes. "There." He bends forward and sniffs at the densely packed substance. "Mmmmh," he adds dreamily. "Good stuff."
He leaves the 'good stuff' sitting in Qui-Gon's hands for another moment, its aroma faintly resinous and acrid, then comes back with a twig that he's blowing on vigorously to keep its glowing end from going out. "Sustainable," he says between puffs, "no need to introduce petroleum-based fires into the womb, is there? Oh, uh. Sit down, will you?" He waves his free hand perfunctorily as if to apologise for the oversight.
The scent multiplies a thousandfold as soon as Bill touches the embers to the brown stuff. Not even bothering to take the glass device from Qui-Gon's hand, Bill leans forward and sucks on a tube protruding from it. The small cavity fills with white smoke, and the water bubbles softly. Bill's face lights up, and he rolls his eyes in pleasure.
"Ahhhhh." He swallows, closes his eyes dreamily, then licks his lips and takes another deep draught of the smoke. "Man, that helps lighten the earthly burden. Come meet me up here, Master of Qi Gong?" He grins conspiratorially and turns the object in Qui-Gon's unresisting hands, pointing at the mouthpiece.
Qui-Gon takes a deep centring breath, fairly certain that he will be able to purge his system of the substance if absolutely necessary. Not that he thinks it will be necessary; Bill's physiology appears sufficiently similar to his own, and his connection to the Living Force is familiar, warped though it may be. He takes a cautious sip of the white smoke. It's surprisingly cool and gentle in his mouth, tickles a little at the back of his throat. He takes another, deeper puff, and a warm numbness settles on his tongue.
Qui-Gon feels his synapses reaching for the alien substance - thinks he can anyway, and the contact is pleasant enough; a faint buzz, a heightening of colour and scent, and a prickly feeling all over his skin, as if the Force had suddenly moved in a step closer and was crowding him. Rather lovingly, it had to be said.
"Yeaaaah." The soft exhale of Bill's voice, low and breathy now, drags him back outside his little cocoon of thought. The man's grin is big and relaxed, and his pupils are huge. "I can feel you can feel it." He snorts in amusement at his own mangled sentence. "That's the Force, man. You got it."
Qui-Gon snorts, puts the glass container down where Bill reaches for it before the water's even finished sloshing. "Leave it." Qui-Gon tries his best Jedi Master stare, which all told is a little hard when one's pupils are significantly dilated.
Bill pouts a little, and yes, it looks ridiculous on a grown man, Jedi or not.
Qui-Gon clears his throat, willing the buzz to subside for a moment. "Any more would only close you off again, wrapped up in yourself and unable to reach out to it. And this is a good place and time. Come."
With that, Qui-Gon rises fluidly off the wet grass, holding out one hand to Bill, who takes it, half-doubtful, half-eager. The smile never leaves his features, like it's baked in place. It suits him. Then, it widens as Bill's brain realises what his body is doing, positioned gently by Qui-Gon's hands.
"You're going to teach me Jedi moves. Heh."
"I am going to show you," Qui-Gon says, taking a deep breath to clear his mind, "what the Force is capable of doing for one attuned to it." He steps close, almost close enough for their noses to touch, places his hands under Bill's armpits and jerks him off the ground, putting him down again immediately. "Stance. Hips forward. Root yourself in the ground." Bill settles visibly, the position apparently familiar to him. "Good. Now," Qui-Gon continues, walking around Bill and standing behind him, placing heavy hands on Bill's shoulders, "I'm going to forego the more common fighting techniques - they tend to come to the user with just practice. I'll show you a simple sequence that you probably haven't heard of. It's highly effective."
The little hairs at Bill's nape stand up, as if reaching for Qui-Gon's mouth. The man is positively thrumming with messy, unchannelled energy. "You'll like it," Qui-Gon murmurs, then grasps Bill's hands by the wrists and moves his arms in a series of slow arcs. Bill follows, not so much unresisting as following, as if piecing together moves he does remember, but not in this way. His legs eagerly respond to the slightest nudges from Qui-Gon's thighs, and steering him with shifts of weight and hips is an oddly pleasurable experience. Obi-Wan would have asked three-and-a-half questions by now, and insisted on trying it himself.
Ah, there it is. The shift in breathing, and for the next cycle the hips fall into position all by themselves. Another handful of breaths, and Bill's body is beginning to realise that this is a sequence of moves that repeats; within minutes, he's doing it all by himself, limbs moving purposefully and yet with the sort of abandon that puts Qui-Gon in mind of a primitive dancer rather than a Jedi training in the halls of Coruscant.
Aptly enough, these are not the halls of Coruscant, and Bill's accelerating steps on the uneven ground are as noisy as his breathing is quiet, swallowed up by the general background hum of the forest. A small groan makes Qui-Gon smile; pretty soon, there will be another. The istasium kata is special that way - a Jedi's way of making love to the Force, and the best and most peaceful application of it towards an adult novice sensitive.
This one is clearly more than a novice, though. This one melts into the grip of the Force with an abandon that's uncommon, the ecstatic childish glee on his face mixed with the very adult reaction the istasium usually engenders in sexually active individuals. Scratch that. In everyone except for my lucky apprentice, it seems.
Another groan, lower this time and rough around the edges, and it takes Qui-Gon a second to realise that this one did not come from Bill, still tightly wrapped in the Force's embrace and rubbing every inch of his skin in it.
This one came from behind him. Directly behind him.
There is movement inside the tent. A vague shadowy squirming probably means that the other Earth man is awake. And, if the sound is anything to go on, subject to an erotic dream similar to the one that had jolted Qui-Gon awake. Must be something in the water.
The breathing is getting heavier on both sides, and now even Qui-Gon is getting a contact buzz from the sheer exuberant energy flowing between these two. Raw, to be sure, and blunt, not as refined as what he has been taught to use, but enjoyable. Also, definitely a connection between them here. He can't tell much more through the static of their flickering minds, but the Force speaks to them, definitely. Both of them.
Right now it's yelling at Bill, and Bill is yelling back, pumping, leaping, losing his rhythm entirely and giving himself up in a roar that makes Qui-Gon flush with the sheer rawness of it. When Bill goes to his knees, it's because they've gone soft, and really, he himself must have looked the same this morning, slumped forward and caught on one hand, panting, joyful and at peace with the Force.
"Impressive," he murmurs, and this time he can't suppress a smile.
"Thanks," Bill pants, laughing. "Man, that one's a keeper. Who taught you that?"
Before Qui-Gon can formulate a suitably diplomatic answer that won't freak Bill out, a noise from the tent commands both their attention. This time it's definitely a groan of pleasure.
A hand presses against the inside of the tent, stretching the thin fabric around its outline. It's a large, competent-looking hand, and even though the tent is not transparent in the least, he fancies he can see the man in it. And there's definitely a craving for touch in there somewhere. And why not?
The hand inside the tent twitches a little when Qui-Gon places his own against it, but within seconds, he's got the man's palm pressed into his, fingers scrambling to push through the thin but resilient fabric. The side of the tent bulges slightly, the weight of a warm body pressing up against it, and the rhythmic rustling of fabric inside speaks of immediate need.
Mischievous, Qui-Gon runs a finger down what he believes to be the length of the man's thigh, and he's rewarded with another desperate grope of the hand in his.
"Ooooh. Oh. Yeah." That was not the man in the tent. That was Bill, minus his stained pants, taking an interest in the situation. Clearly an encouraging interest. "Show him what those hands can do, man. Fantastic. Mmmmh."
Matching deeds to words, Bill has bent down and laid his hands on the side of the tent roof, pressing down until the shiny material is stretched taut and his hands have made contact with the man within. "You happy in there, Lyn?"
An abbreviated groan is the answer, and the movement inside stills abruptly. "Wh... Bill? You got... you got more'n two hands there! What's going on?" The voice is still somewhat sleepy (or pleasure-soaked - hard to tell upon first contact), but the rustling inside takes on a more rushed, urgent quality, and the hands disappear. Then the zip fastening on the narrow side of the tent starts jerking erratically, and a muffled curse accompanies the collapse of the entire structure on top of the hapless man inside.
Bill's letting go of the tent line with a grin, then steps on the zipper authoritatively.
"Feel, don't think," he says, kneeling down on the now-trapped zipper and directly above the now-trapped Lyn.
This time Qui-Gon can't rein in a snort (really, Force? You're remarkably uncreative sometimes), but there is, admittedly, a certain allure to a squirming man veiled in a layer of shiny tough fabric thin enough to transmit almost all sensation but sturdy enough to keep him trapped.
Bill has leaned forward and planted his knees on either side of Lyn's face, the fabric taut over his face. There is an open mouth, and heavy breathing moving the material. Bill's hands are skirting down Lyn's torso, shoving at constricting clothing, or whatever else it is that Lyn's slept in; it needs to be out of the way, that much they are clear on, all of them.
Even Lyn is cooperating, as much as he can with his movement restricted. Squirming is always an option, and by the look and sound of it, it's an option he enjoys. Qui-Gon runs another leisurely hand up Lyn's thigh, and the shiny green stuff pulls taut as the man reflexively spreads his legs wider. There is a noticeable bulge between them, and Qui-Gon casts one quizzical look at Bill and waits for the nod before running a finger down its length.
Two groans and a taut twitch are his reward. "That you, Django?" Lyn's voice is more than a little breathless, and chances are he doesn't care who it is as long as he keeps doing what he's doing. They. Whatever.
"What does it feel like?" Bill murmurs against Lyn's ear. "What does it look like?"
Another groan, and the legs squirm closed again as Lyn tries his best to curl up away from the distracting touches. "Concentrate," Bill murmurs. "What can you see?"
"Fuck," Lyn breathes. "What have you put on this damn nylon? It's sticking to me like some goddamn whore!"
"Sweat will do that," Bill replies nonchalantly. "Anyway, no whores present. All good clean fun."
Qui-Gon snorts and places a hand on Lyn's fabric-covered buttock for good measure. He twists away at first, then relaxes into the touch, probably resigned to the fact that trapped as he is, he can't go anywhere that his 'tormentors' won't want him to. And there's always the loose tent lines. And maybe it is something in the water but that thought makes Qui-Gon flush a little with excitement.
"A guy," Lyn groans. "Mmmm." Yep, Qui-Gon has found the sweet spot on his perineum, and if anything, it's more sensitive than he's used to seeing in his fellow humans. Lyn's scissored his thighs open again to give him better access. "Big guy. Tall. Lots of hair. Long. Weird wonky smile. God his hands are good... fuck!" He trails off into a series of desperate pants, hips bucking of their own accord. "Django, whoever this guy is... uhh. Give me more of him. Now."
Bill hums in appreciation, nods determinedly at Qui-Gon, then leans forward and nuzzles at the ridge that is Lyn's erection.
"H-hhnhh." The sack of tent fabric is struggling, the man inside desperate for more touch. Head trapped between Bill's knees, cock and balls and all places inbetween trapped between Bill's hands and Bill's mouth and Qui-Gon's hands and all it takes is a few more strokes until the Force is stained white with an explosive release.
The tent, seconds later, is stained a slightly stickier green. Bill levers himself up and wipes his mouth.
"Mmmmmh. I'd say that counts as advanced remote viewing given the... circumstances. What would you say, Qi guy?" Bill is already fumbling for the zipper; Lyn has gone completely quiet save for his heavy breathing that puffs up the fabric over his face.
"Unorthodox, to be sure," Qui-Gon opines softly, tearing his hand away from Lyn's buttock, "but very worth pursuing. You two show quite some natural grasp of the Force."
"Grasp." Bill chuckles. "Nice way of putting it. Right, Lyn?" He tears open the zipper to reveal a sweaty, stubbly man with thick, messy longish brown hair and an angelic smile on his face. His eyes are brown and luminous, and the size of swimming pools. They flicker in the bright light of the morning sun, as if there was something tugging at his consciousness.
A blink later, Qui-Gon senses it too.
"Master, we have to talk." There he is, Obi-Wan Kenobi, proper Jedi Padawan. So proper in fact that he manages to look prim in just his sleep tunic, with no pants, possibly the result of some involuntary nocturnal staining. Not like that isn't what one does on this planet. Apparently.
Qui-Gon has to focus to tone down the residual buzz that's still in his system, not so much from the herbal drug as from the intimate contact with two alien unskilled Force users.
"Talk about what, Padawan?" He tries to make his voice sound as even as he can. He is the Master here, after all. The two Earth men, Bill and Lyn, stare at him admiringly.
"About your tendency to infiltrate the Force with sexual energy." Trust Obi-Wan Kenobi to make that sound like an offence.
"I take it you had a less than pleasant awakening then, Padawan?" Staying diplomatic is a strain here, but he's keeping the sarcasm down for the sake of his audience.
"I was worried." Obi-Wan's voice has gone quiet, and if he wasn't sure that Jedi apprentices didn't pout, and Obi-Wan Kenobi even less so, he would have suspected that that's what Obi-Wan's lower lip was doing. "Finding that you had randomly wandered off wasn't so bad, Master. But casting about a little more and finding Force-sensitives in the immediate vicinity, and, well... that kind of tinge to the Force..." He shudders visibly.
Wonder if he got the same fantasy images that drove me out of bed in the first place, Qui-Gon thought, immediately followed by, Surely I don't look all that appalling while being gang-banged by a good dozen happy hands? Yeah, better not to bring that one up with the prim young Padawan here.
"I assure you nothing untoward has passed," Qui-Gon says, with as much dignity as he can given the wanton display behind him. "Anyway, we have made some promising first contact with the natives. This would appear to be their version of a militia." He carefully neglects to mention that these guys called themselves Jedi to his face. "They're capable of being astoundingly peaceful." His smile is totally lost on Obi-Wan, who is staring past him.
"Evidently so."
Blinking, Qui-Gon looks around. Sure enough, Lyn's fallen asleep right where he is, still tangled in the wreckage of the tent, and Bill's apparently taken the opportunity to spend the rest of the morning curled up around his favourite student. They look like a pair of hairy, sweaty angels, utterly oblivious.
"I suppose further cultural exploration will have to wait until they're awake again," Qui-Gon concedes grudgingly. Privately, he admits that he's more than a little reluctant to leave this tableau of manly Force-loving behind. They were, uh, fun.
Obi-Wan has already stomped ahead, and it doesn't take a Jedi's sensibility to sense that he's currently quite busy finding fault with Qui-Gon's instruction methods in the Force. And his general demeanour. And he hasn't even seen what they've gotten up to. And it'll be hard to keep Bill and Lyn from mentioning it. Or demanding a repeat performance. And Obi-Wan is, more's the pity, not the type of Force-sensitive who will respond to the physical kind of communion with the Force.
Sighing, Qui-Gon follows his retreating Padawan back towards their base camp. Another team will have to continue the explorations, and knowing how thinly the Jedi are spread, it could take decades until one is assigned.
Although, if the Force has any sense of humour, it would send Obi-Wan here with his own apprentice in due course. It's small comfort, but Qui-Gon finds himself smiling at the lesson that that would teach his stiff-and-not-in-that-way Padawan.
A little later, as he steps off that strange planet (that has such strange and wonderful people in it), he does his best to kiss its face with his boots without his Padawan noticing.