Warnings: This is a *PARODY*. Please don't take offense at this
bit of silliness ñ no way should it be taken at all
seriously by anyone.
Archive: Yeah, sure. You want it? Why?
Notes: I don't use betas. :( Any mistakes are solely my fault
and the fault of my *#^&@ spellcheck. ** is used for
emphasis, // for thought. Any weird characters should be hunted
down and killed.
Spoilers: Yeah, probably.
Summary: Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, a quiet night in bed. . . No, wait,
that's another story, sorry.
{Oh, this is terrible. I'm a long-time TPM writer, so I just
couldn't resist poking a teeny bit of fun at some of the more -
um, 'well-used' fanon conventions out there, all of which I'm
*sure* I've done! I'm gonna get in *big* trouble.}
"No, Master"
by MonaR.
monaram@yahoo.com
"Master?"
"Um?" Qui-Gon Jinn, broad-backed, firm-chested, he of the
washboard stomach and elegantly graying hair pulled back into a
neat ponytail - except for the little disheveled bit that let
the casual observer know that he'd just been caught in a little
rummpy-pumpy with his Paddlewan -
cerulean/midnight/dreamscape/ocean-depths blue eyes slightly
gazed over, one lip between his teeth, paused in mid-stroke.
"Did you say something, Obi-Wan?"
"Uh, *yeth*," Obi-Wan answered - or, at least tried to, mashed
as he was underneath a couple hundred pounds of solid muscle,
*again*. "You think you could get off me for a minute? I'm
cramping, here."
"Right *now*?"
"Only if you still want a *living* Padawan, Master."
Sighing, Qui-Gon shifted his weight, his enormous, blood-filled
cock somewhat drooping in the face of his
much-younger-but-not-quite-enough-for-a-big-squick-to-the-easily-disturbed
and currently rather pissed-off lover. "Better?"
"Ask me when the blood rushes back to my extremities." Obi-Wan
rolled over on his back, Padawan braid embedded in his chest.
He pulled it out with a 'pop', reached for his own package, and
waggled it - much like the infamous scene in 'Velvet Goldmine',
minus the sparkles and the cheering masses. "You see this? This
is *my* penis. It has a function. Anymore of this coming by
rubbing myself into the mattress under you, and it will no
longer have any skin on it. To paraphrase Darth Martha Stewart,
that would be a Very *Bad* Thing."
"Is something wrong, Padawan?" Qui-Gon asked, calmly. He always
spoke calmly, even in the middle of a rigorous fuck, unless he
was in a Dark-Side a/u, or it was alternate Tuesdays.
"How come I never get to be on top, huh? You've put on a couple
of pounds since May, and I swear you're either getting taller,
or I'm shrinking." Obi-Wan looked him up and down. "You on
steroids, or something? I'm barely coming up to your armpit,
these days, and I used to clear your shoulder, at least."
"I am your Maaster, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said placidly. "And I am
bigger and stronger than you. But I am not an unreasonable man.
You may be on top whenever you want."
"I want."
"Fine." Qui-Gon rolled over on his back, and waved to his
young, beautiful, peach-skinned apprentice - eyes like the sea,
lashes down to his nose, penis-waving and all. Still, he loved
the little brat, and he had a great ass. "Climb on," he said,
pointing to his big dick.
"Bite me."
"Fine," Qui-Gon said, evenly. "Where would you like?"
"You *know* what I mean. I want to ride you like a wild
stallion, Qui-Gon, not climb on that flagpole again. My ass is
so sore I can barely walk."
"When I am finished, then you may - Wait a minute, what did you
just call me?" There was a tiny glimmer of anger in that
question, but it was quickly dissipated by years - nay,
*decades* - of Jedi training. Qui-Gon thought back to the first
meditation Master Yoda had taught him, back when Qui-Gon was
still so young the little sock-puppet almost came up to his
waist, that mantra of great calming and unbreakable focus, and
hummed it in his mind, /I love you, you love me - /
Obi-Wan had to think back. "Qui-Gon? It's your name, right?
Qui-Gon Jinn?"
"You aren't allowed to call me anything but 'Master', and you
know that."
"Oh, that is *such* a trip. Do you know that in fifty years I'm
going to have my *own* second apprentice, and will I even get a
'Kenobi' from him? No. 'Obi-Wan'? I don't think so. He's going
to call me 'Ben'. Snot-nosed punk kid."
"Perhaps you should discipline him."
Obi-Wan's eyes glazed over for a moment, then he shook his
head. "Quit changing the subject. Besides, Luke has a brand on
*his* ass that reads 'property of Han Solo'. Although,
sometimes the name is crossed out and reads 'Wedge'. I believe
Lando's got a bid in somewhere, too, and the entire Red and
Gold Squadrons. But that's not the *point*," he whined.
"If he's your apprentice, Padawan, then he's *yours*, in every
way. I'd suggest you deal with the interlopers accordingly."
"So what you're telling me is that you and Master Yoda - "
"No!" Qui-Gon looked aghast, yet unruffled. "*Ewwww*. How could
you even suggest such a thing?"
"You said so yourself, not thirty seconds ago. 'If he's your
apprentice, yada yada yada.' Yoda was your Master, so he must
have had a good poke at you at some point." Obi-Wan's
sky-blue/sea green/hazel/plaid eyes welled with sudden tears.
"Unless - you were *lying* to me," he wailed, like a Padawan
who's just been disappointed by his Master for the very first
time, or Kathie Lee when she's faced with the sweatshop
pictures from her clothing factories with a camera anywhere in
the immediate vicinity.
"Oh, no, no," Qui-Gon said, pulling his little, tiny,
minuscule, are-you-eating-enough Padawan close to his heaving
chest, erect nipples perking as they were brushed by The Braid.
"I just forgot, that's all," he said, with great tranquillity.
"Don't cry."
"Okay," Obi-Wan said, shutting off the tears like a faucet.
"So, are we going to do this, or what?"
"You don't still want to be on top, do you?" Qui-Gon asked,
hopefully. But calm. Always calm. Like desert, like the sea -
except, you know, when there's no storm on it, or a war, or a
big podrace, or something. Just when it's calm.
Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. "Well, although you are *obviously* a
raging bottom in *deep* denial, I suppose, just this onc-"
"Great," Qui-Gon said, his placid exterior betraying no
disturbance. He grabbed Obi-Wan and started humping his leg.
Obi-Wan, sighing, moved into position, rubbing the bruise that
was already starting to show on his thigh. Damn, he was never
going to hear the end of it about that in the Padawans' weekly
circle-jerk. He bounced up and down, a little bored, chanting,
"Oh, yes, Master, like that, Master, do me, Master, harder,
faster, deeper, Master." He yawned. "You about done, or what?"
"Almost - there - Obi-Wan - " Qui-Gon threw back his head,
showing the elegant neck, the pulsing veins as he approached an
earth-shattering, tidal-wave climax.
"Goody," Obi-Wan said, still bouncing without much enthusiasm.
"I wuv you, Quisy."
"I love you, too Ob- " Qui-Gon, with great effort, stopped
thrusting his hips up. "'Quisy'?"
"I thought it would be cute if I gave you a nickname," Obi-Wan
said, with an enthusiastic smile. He was such an impetuous,
leap-before-you-look, scamp of a Padawan. "*All* the Padawans
are doing it. Didn't you have one for *your* Master?"
"Like what?" Qui-Gon asked, trying to suppress the un-Jedi-like
fit of giggles he could feel welling up in his throat. "Yo-Yo?"
He could feel forty-five/fifty-two/fifty-five/I don't know,
sixty-something? years of Jedi training also in his throat,
fighting the lightsaber duel of a lifetime with a Sithly fit of
girlish giggles. The Jedi calm *had* to win. It *had* to! What
would Obi-Wan think if he - if he - "Yo-Yo," he repeated, and
then burst into a hysterical fit of laughter.
Obi-Wan, who had never seen a show of emotion from his Master,
other than the
tightly-reigned-brightly-flaming-and-yet-smoldering passion of
their three-times-a-night fuck sessions, thought his 'Quisy'
was having a fit. An *epileptic* fit. He jumped up and off his
Master, managing to clear the bed and perform an intricate
training maneuver that he normally shouldn't have been able to
even attempt for another year/two years/six years/lifetime,
before *nailing* the landing, legs straight and arms up in the
air. "Yes!" he said, and then noticed that his Master appeared
to still be having a fit. There was no time to go for an
ubiquitous, mystical Jedi Healer, and besides, they were all in
Master Yoda's bi-annual 'STDs and Your Padawan: the *Real* Dark
Side of the Force' lecture. He ran for the bathroom, returned
with a glass of water, and threw it on the writhing man.
Sputtering and yet unruffled, Qui-Gon asked, "What did you do
that for?"
"You *scared* me, Quisy," Obi-Wan said. "You were shaking, and
rolling, and there was this weird sound coming out of your
mouth - "
"I was laughing," Qui-Gon said, dryly. And very calmly, too.
"Really? You can *do* that?" Obi-Wan looked at him with a
mixture of stunned wonder and quiet awe. "You can do
*anything*, can't you?"
"Anything except *come*," Qui-Gon said, with weary resignation.
He was a Jedi, after all, and he didn't need sex, drugs, rock
and roll. He had the Force. The Force was his friend. The Force
gave all. There was no fear, no anger, no death, no passion -
"Oh, screw it!" he yelled. "I just want to get off, okay? Is
that too much to ask?"
Obi-Wan cowered in fear. "Don't hit me again!"
"Hit you? I've never hit you."
"Oh, yeah, that was an alternate reality. Never mind. Can I be
on top, now?" Obi-Wan bounced up and down on his knees on the
bed, The Braid bouncing along with him.
"Sure, whatever, why not?" Qui-Gon answered. "Back or stomach?"
"Back," Obi-Wan said. "Although it's much more uncomfortable
for you, this *is* your first time being fucked, and I want to
be able to kiss you and hug you and squeeze you and tell you
how pretty you are to your face."
"And that's a good thing?" Qui-Gon asked.
"Yeah. You might think about trying that with *me*, once in a
while. I *can* read your mind, but it wouldn't kill you to make
with the compliments, you know."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Good. Okay, assume the position."
"Which is?" Qui-Gon asked, mystified and calm.
"Knees to your chest, and kiss your ass good-bye!" Obi-Wan
grabbed his cock, gave it a final waggle for good measure, and
started to push it in.
"Uh, *ow*!" Qui-Gon said, with heroic calm. "Lube, maybe?"
"Damn, I forgot. Never mind, I think there's some in the - "
Qui-Gon, realizing it was his *own* virgin ass on the line and
lube was really necessary - preferably that nice, anesthetic
kind they'd received as a present from the Queen/Senator/Evil
Dictator of Fskjewr9hasdflknaghasduewytglag 3, the last time
they were there on a Jedi Diplomatic Mission (TM) before
running for their very lives, reached his hands and gathered
the precious Force to him, using it as it was meant to be used
ñ to get the lube in a hurry, when you didn't really
feel like getting out of bed. He smiled as the bottle came
forth from the bathroom, floating calmly through the air. /Who
needs a replicator- transporter-other technobabble-cool-gadget
when you've got the Force?/ he thought to himself. /The Force
provides all./
Obi-Wan, meanwhile, had remembered the tube of gloppy stuff
he'd snatched from Master Windu's private 'Pleasure Palace',
the S/M club he ran on the side, in between glowering with
Jedi-like menace on the Council, and lobbing pithy Offical Jedi
Master 'May the Force Be With You's at people on the streets of
Coruscant for nickels. The lube was in the drawer of the
night-table, and he leaned over and grabbed it, popping back up
just in time to -
*thwap*
**********
When Obi-Wan awoke, he was on his back beside his Master, who
was covered discreetly with the sheet, smoking a cigarette.
Yeah, it was bad for his health, but what else are you going to
do after doing the wild thing? Nicotine was the only thing with
no specific prohibition in the Jedi Manual.
"Master?" Obi-Wan asked, sitting up in the bed. His head really
hurt.
"Oh, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, putting the cigarette out. "That
was *incredible*. It was perfect, beautiful - I swear, I
actually passed out in the middle of it, and when I came to,
you were *still* fucking me. I never knew it could be *like*
that. It was - ethereal. The closest I've ever been to the
Force."
Obi-Wan smiled a little, wishing he could *remember* the
perfect moment. "So, can we do it again, then?"
"Oh, no," Qui-Gon said, quickly. "No, we agreed, remember, that
that time was so *perfect* that we couldn't possibly ever match
it. No, I think it should remain a beautiful, crystal memory,
one that we will look on for years to come. Or, at least until
I get hacked by the Sith."
"Well, I - "
"But I do remember *your* request, Padawan," Qui-Gon said. "I'm
ready when you are." He threw back the sheet to reveal a raging
hard-on.
Obi-Wan, still trying desperately to remember this perfect
moment, sighed and said, "Yes, Master," climbing on the
flagpole that was Qui-Gon Jinn and thinking of England. "Yes,
Master, more Master," he chanted. Bits of memory were trying to
flitter through his mind, but seemed to be pressed back by the
familiar presence of their Master/Apprentice Bond (TM).
"Harder, Master, deeper, Master." Finally, being the superior
mental talent that he was, Obi-Wan managed to bitch-slap his
Master's presence away from his mind, and stopped bouncing in
horror as realization of what they'd done that night struck.
"You *fraud*!" he shrieked. "I didn't even *touch* your ass!
YOU KNOCKED ME OUT BRINGING THE LUBE WITH THE FORCE *AGAIN*,
DIDN'T YOU?!?!?"
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