Master Apprentice
Archive
Mummer's Night
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Archive: M-A only, please
Pairing: Q/O
Rating: NC-17
Category: Humor, PWP, First time, Mild angst
Feedback: Sure.
Warnings: Um . . . cross-dressing?
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, I just play with 'em.
Summary: It's Mummer's Night at the Temple, and everyone's playing.
Notes: It's a little early for Halloween, but what the heck. This was inspired by a chat with my friend Asato (who's busy writing her very first Q/O story--yay!) in which we threw out random things to be included in a story. In no particular order, they were--a flowered handbag, a bee sting, an eyepatch (in honor of Talk Like a Pirate Day), and the line "Why do I have to be the girl?" (Obi-Wan is nineteen.)
Dedication: For Asato, who gave me some excellent yaoi, and demanded smut in return.
"Why do I have to be the girl?"
Qui-Gon raised an elegant eyebrow. "You don't think my beard might be somewhat less than convincing?"
"Not if you were a Wookiee girl."
"It would have to be a Wookiee girl with mange," Qui-Gon said, inspecting his reflection in the mirror.
Obi-Wan stood in the doorway of the fresher, looking forlornly at the flowered handbag he carried. The costumes for Mummer's Night at the Temple were distributed at random from the Quartermaster's office, so there was really no reason for him to take it personally. But still.
His tall, powerful, painfully desirable Master had drawn a pirate's costume, replete with eyepatch, thigh boots, and a ruffled shirt with long, billowy sleeves. It made him look even more handsome and dangerous than he usually did, which was itself enough to leave his long-suffering Padawan in a perpetually unrequited state of arousal.
And Obi-Wan's costume for the night was . . . a dress. A full lavender gown with false breasts thoughtfully sewn inside the lining of the bodice, which also came with an actual corset. Pads to plump out his hips went under the skirt, tied around his waist, and a long, curly red wig completed the ensemble.
Well. Not entirely. He looked down at the handbag again, his upper lip curling in disgust. They could have at least found a bag that matched his dress, he thought wearily, resigned to his fate.
He only hoped his agemates suffered similar humiliations this night. It would soothe his raw ego considerably to see Bruck Chun tricked out in a costume like this.
Qui-Gon turned from the mirror, eyepatch in place. "How do I look?" Edible, Obi-Wan thought. "Very dashing," he said.
He didn't bother asking how he looked.
A gaggle of Initiates squealed in mock-fright at the sight of the pirate looming over them, then fled down the corridor in a giggling clot. Qui-Gon dashed after them, swinging his ancient short sword above his head, roaring "Arrrrr!" in a suitably menacing tone.
In his tight, ill-fitting slippers, Obi-Wan couldn't dash anywhere. He watched his Master turn a corner after the children, admiring the way the black trousers molded to his nether regions. He let out a tiny sigh, the only kind he was capable of in the corset, and continued down the corridor.
He heard a smothered laugh behind him, and turned, clutching his handbag with something like dread.
He was confronted by the sight of a walking Egerriki tree, one with large, round, silver eyes. "Oh, Obi-Wan," the tree snickered, raising a branch to cover its mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry."
"I don't want to hear it, Bant," Obi-Wan through clenched teeth.
The tree's trunk shook briefly before Bant got herself under control. "Don't feel too bad. Wait until you see Chun."
"What is he?"
The tree smiled smugly. "The back half of a Bantha."
Obi-Wan snorted in a most unladylike fashion. "Who's the front half?"
"Reeft, Force bless him."
Obi-Wan suddenly felt better about his dress.
Endurance was a noble Jedi trait, Obi-Wan kept telling himself. Qui-Gon had it in spades, the stoic bastard. Obi-Wan thought he had acquitted himself quite well thus far, enduring the giggles of the Initiates, the outright guffaws of his fellow Padawans, even a few suppressed chuckles from various Knights and Masters. But there was only so much a person could take, even a Jedi person.
The first part of Mummer's Night was over. The crechelings, Initiates and Junior Padawans had all been packed off to their beds. On the twenty-third level open-air atrium, strung with softly glowing paper lanterns, the rest of the participants gathered for the Mummer's Ball.
Just into his first year as a Senior Padawan, it was Obi-Wan's first Mummer's Ball. And how was he spending it? Standing in a corner, in a wig and a dress and a corset and tight, pinching shoes, drinking punch with an Egerriki tree and watching his Master dance.
With Mace Windu.
Master Windu was dressed as a Sajarian overlord, a costume almost as romantic as his own Master's, with a long black coat that swept the top of his boots, and a hat festooned with swooping white kherekh feathers.
Obi-Wan wanted to weep at the unfairness of it all.
Bant leaned close, her foliage tickling his ear. "Cut in."
He turned his head, pulling back to avoid a twig in the eye. "Are you insane? I can't cut in on a Master." He looked back at the dancers. "Besides, I can barely walk in these shoes, much less dance."
"Take them off. I'll watch them for you." A branch nudged him in the corset. "Come on, O--do or do not."
Obi-Wan sighed as a cool breeze lifted the tendrils of his wig around his face, and looked around. Several Knights and Masters occupied the dance floor--an open swath of green grass ringed by the gently swaying lanterns--and several Padawans danced as well. In fact, he and Bant seemed to be the only ones not dancing--she by virtue of her bulky costume, and him . . . well, he supposed it was only cowardice. Not at all a noble Jedi trait.
"Right," he said, hooking his handbag over one of Bant's branches. "I'm going in." He toed his shoes off and smoothed the front of his skirt. "Wish me luck."
"Luck," the tree whispered, and Obi-Wan lifted his chin, straightened his shoulders, and walked to the edge of the dance floor.
He had taken no more than three steps onto the soft green grass, when a blinding pain shot through his left foot. He yelped and jumped back, colliding with something small and solid. His legs tangled in his voluminous skirts and he fell backwards, head over heels. His wig flew off and landed in the grass at approximately the same time as his well-cushioned bottom.
Dazed, he looked up at the Ewok he had tripped over, aware of a hot, throbbing pain on the ball of his left foot, and a sudden, shocked silence.
The Ewok folded its paws on the gimer stick it carried. "Padawan Kenobi," it intoned in a decidedly non-Ewok voice. "More mindful of your surroundings, you should be."
The silence was quickly consumed in a swelling roar of laughter, coinciding with a heated flush working its way up Obi-Wan's neck. He looked over the Ewok's shoulder and saw his Master approaching, Master Windu right behind him. Qui-Gon's expression hovered between amusement and concern. Master Windu's face showed only amusement, deepening to an outright smirk.
Obi-Wan did what any noble Jedi would do in such a situation--he rolled to his feet, hiked up his lavender skirts and ran.
He'd made it as far as the lift alcove when his Master's growl froze him in his tracks.
"Padawan!"
Even had he been inclined to disobey his Master, his body reacted instinctively to the tone of command. He turned around, head bowed, trembling with humiliation and not a little anger. His left foot still throbbed, though the pain had subsided a little, and the thrice-damned corset had left him breathless.
Qui-Gon's booted feet came into view. Obi-Wan didn't look up, couldn't. He heard his Master take a long breath, let it out. He knew without having to look that Qui-Gon was composing his features into the Perfect Master Mask.
"Look at me, Padawan."
Obi-Wan looked. Yes, the Mask was there, albeit somewhat hindered by the eyepatch.
"Would you care to tell me what prompted that display?"
Display?! Obi-Wan stiffened. "My apologies for embarrassing you, Master." His voice was low, barely audible to even his own ears. "I have suffered an injury, and am on my way to the Healers." True enough, even if the larger injury was to his dignity.
"Injury?" The Mask disappeared, replaced with tender concern. Obi-Wan felt like crying again. "What injury?"
Obi-Wan bowed his head again, biting his lip. "My foot. I stepped on something sharp, I think."
Qui-Gon stepped close, taking Obi-Wan's elbow. He guided him to a bench on one side of the lift doors. "Sit."
Obi-Wan sat, in a billow of skirts.
Qui-Gon knelt before him. "Which foot?"
"Left." Obi-Wan let out a trembling sigh as his Master pushed the lavender silk up over his knees. He would never live this night down. His only hope of salvation lay in the knowledge that he had not seen a Bantha at the ball, either the front or the back half.
His thoughts evaporated as broad hands lifted his foot, the smooth, sure touch spreading warmth over the heel and arch.
Qui-Gon flipped the eyepatch up and frowned at Obi-Wan's foot. "Why aren't you wearing your shoes?"
"I--wanted to dance."
Qui-Gon let out a non-committal grunt, and stroked his thumb over the aching ball of his foot. "Well, you stepped on something sharp, all right--there's a bee stinger lodged in here."
"Can you get it out?"
Qui-Gon looked up at him with a reassuring smile, one that made his stomach flutter. "I think so. Hold still."
His Master's blunt fingers caressed the injured area, bringing a soothing coolness to the swollen, heated flesh. Those same blunt fingers grasped the tip of the stinger with surprising deftness, gently wiggling the tiny barb out.
Obi-Wan winced as the stinger pulled free, then sighed in relief as more cooling energy flowed over the wound, drawing out the venom, diminishing the swelling.
"Better?" Qui-Gon asked, massaging the injured foot.
"Yes, thank you, Master," Obi-Wan said softly, almost shyly. Qui-Gon was still holding his foot, his fingers trailing over the delicate skin of the arch. A small thrill ran down Obi-Wan's spine, and he shivered.
Qui-Gon looked up at him with a thoughtful expression. "Who were you going to dance with?"
"I--it was--" Obi-Wan sighed, miserable. "You, Master. I wanted to dance with you."
"I see." Qui-Gon's hands left his foot and slid up to massage his calf. "Do you still want to dance with me, Padawan?"
No, Obi-Wan thought, looking at the wide expanse of hair and muscled skin revealed by the deep vee of Qui-Gon's pirate shirt. I want to lick you. "If you wish it, Master."
The hands crested his knee and moved to his lower thigh. "And if I do not wish it?"
Obi-Wan fought back a sharp pang of disappointment. He couldn't blame his Master. He must make quite a sight, sitting here in his ridiculous dress, barefoot and bareheaded. Not to mention the spectacle he had made of himself at the ball. "Whatever pleases you, my Master."
Qui-Gon suddenly straightened, leaning in close. "You please me, my Obi-Wan," he breathed, his mouth bare inches from Obi-Wan's, his hands slipping underneath the pushed-up skirts.
Obi-Wan's heart was pounding so loudly, he wasn't quite sure he'd heard correctly. "M-Master?"
Qui-Gon's lips ghosted over his, his breath hot against Obi-Wan's mouth. "Keep an eye out--let me know if anyone heads this way." Without another word, he lifted the yards of lavender silk and dove underneath them.
Obi-Wan made a shocked, startled sound that was perilously close to a squeak. His shock doubled, tripled, as a hot, moist tongue slicked the length of his shaft.
A strangled sound escaped the back of his throat as he became instantly, painfully erect. One hand found the edge of the bench and gripped it hard enough to hurt, while the other found the back of Qui-Gon's head, buried under the silk. He looked wildly around, making sure no one entered the lift area, then went quietly blind with lust as the tip of Qui-Gon's tongue ran up the underside of his throbbing cock.
"Master," he gasped, trying to thrust his hips forward and stay upright at the same time. "Oh, gods."
Wet, fiery heat engulfed him then, and he moaned, shuddering, his head falling back in helpless pleasure. One warm hand circled the base of his cock while the other fondled his testicles, petting and caressing. Powerful suction enveloped him, almost ruthless in its intensity, and a soft cry broke from his lips.
A contented humming sound issued from underneath his skirts, and a maddening vibration fluttered against his engorged flesh. "Master," he groaned, "I'm--ohh---gods!" With a wail, he pulsed deep in his Master's throat, nearly falling off the bench in the throes of his ecstasy.
Gasping, he slumped down, staring glaze-eyed at Qui-Gon as he emerged, licking his swollen lips. "Master," he panted. "You . . . that was . . . oh, Force."
A slow, feral grin spread across Qui-Gon's face. He reached up, and with great deliberation, flipped his eyepatch back into place. He slipped his arms around Obi-Wan's waist and stood, hoisting his boneless Padawan over one shoulder.
"Master, what are you doing?" Obi-Wan gasped, noting with clinical detachment that he was now eye-level with Qui-Gon's deliciously black-clad backside.
Qui-Gon punched the lift controls, keeping a tight grip on his burden. "I'm going to take you home and ravish you, like a proper pirate."
A satisfied smile curved Obi-Wan's lips, and as he was carried into the lift, he reminded himself to send a thank-you note to the Quartermaster.