Master Apprentice Archive Room Service: Cage Quick search:

Rating: NC-17

Summary: What the...? Yes, Obi-Wan thinks so, too.

Notes: Okay, folks, this is definitely the last Room Service from me - this one's heavily indebted to An Pierle, whose song "God In A Cage" seems to have lodged itself permanently in my brain. Dedicated to my Master who keeps telling me to write even more, to Barbarawho's sent such lovely feedback on each and every of the other Room Services, to those who recognise themselves in that last scene, and to the M_A list!

Disclaimer: I won't even begin to think what would have happened if GL had been left in charge of this situation... as it is, the entry to this particular cage is totally free, no money made!

Warnings: Elektra might consider this one eligible for her projected Qui-Gon Torture Oasis... but I swear there'll be no marks left on the adorable Master!

Force, it's dark in here.

I do my best to surface slowly. Better not knock your head on the edge of full awareness... seems all right. My head, that is. Still in one piece, no bumps, no aches. I run my fingers through my hair. Yep, still there. Padawan braid. Still there. The familiar brush of tunics against skin. Yep, still there. I rub my eyes. Exploding patterns of purple and green. Good. Sight still there.

Which makes me even more painfully aware of how my memory seems absent without leave.  From a certain point onwards anyway. How in all the Sith hells did I get to be here, wherever 'here' is?

I rack my brains for traces. No injuries, so much is clear. No enemies, no surreptitious blow to the back of the head, no long-range weapon fired from out of earshot. Not with my body as intact as it is. No insidious drug. I hadn't eaten or drunk anything for hours, and out in the open air of Ama-Detecho the chances of poison gas were negligible. Especially seeing as the last memory available seems to be our Detecho hostess babbling away about some new crush of hers. Oh great. What a way to go. Assuming this is the afterlife of course.

Shit no. It doesn't feel like death either. It feels like... like the Force decided to suddenly insert punctuation into my life. And that had definitely been a full stop.

And I'm well into the next paragraph judging from the stubble on my chin. How long have I been here? In the blackness of the dot at the end of a suspended sentence? I slap myself out of such intellectual navel-chasing, and am relieved to hear the sound echo slightly. A faint singing sound, short and dissonant.

I scramble to my feet and reach for the Force.

Ah.

Oh. Oh sautéed Sithspit. It's gone. Or rather, going. Slipping through my mind like water through outstretched fingers, and I can't seem to get enough of it into enough of me to establish where I am, what's going on, or indeed who I am.

Obi-Wan Kenobi. Cut the crap. You still have hands.

I stretch my arms out in front of me and advance, carefully, on bent knees just in case I need to leap back from whatever I encounter. I make contact rather quickly, so soon in fact that leaping backwards would only have resulted in slamming myself against the wall I'd woken up leaning against. Carefully, I probe.

Metal. A bar, vertical, round, sturdy. Singing slightly as I run my hand up it, a dissonant hum. I jerk my hand away. And hit another bar. And another, and another before I let my hand drop to my side...

A cage. Cut off from the Force, in a cage. SHIT! I can feel a sense of panic lancing through me. How appropriate in this place where all my other senses are pretty bloody useless... no. My sense of touch isn't. I pinch myself hard to prove it, and fail to wake up. Well, that did a lot of good, didn't it, Padawan.

Hearing seems to work. I touch the bars again and elicit the same dissonant metallic sigh. Calm yourself, Obi. Centre.

I hear it, now. At the edge of hearing, now that the rush of blood in my ears and the clamour of panic has submitted to the ancient Jedi technique, shaky but effective, just about.

Breaths?

I hold my own breath, forcing myself to make no sound, and pour myself  into my hearing. Breaths, definitely. Deep, slightly strained, as if coming from someone who has fallen asleep bearing a great weight. Familiar breaths. The realisation does not so much dawn. It crashes into me with the release of my own pent-up breath.

"Master?!"

I flinch at the sudden overload, and it takes me several seconds to realise someone's simply turned the lights on. Oh good.

Oh no.

It's not me who's in the cage. Well, I'm not quite outside either. Outside, that's behind this huge grey-tinted glass pane in the far wall. Outside, that's - my memory screams. The Detecho!

Time moves like treacle, and I find myself slightly amused at how I'd always thought they were a uniform race. Nothing could be further from it. A cluster of beings of all shapes and sizes, most of these shapes and sizes concealed under plain white coats. All of them winged. Big purple wings towering over the smaller specimens. A long feathery neck here, a short furry one there, pale ordinary skin on the next one. Hair. Faces? I crane  my neck to get the reflections off their faces, but can't. The pane is shielding them. All I get is a congregation of angels with haloes for  faces. Seen through bars. Two sets of bars.

I drop my eyes, slow motion, and time kicks back in again at the sight between those sets of bars. Oh no.

I must have screamed, my throat feels raw, and those execrable beings behind the screen seem agitated for a minute. "Master!!!" Oh Force what have they done to him?? He's not responding, just lying there on the floor of that cage, legs pulled up because there's no room for him to stretch out. Curled uncomfortably, naked, hair matted, face gaunt, skin still shining matte from sweat. Both wrists manacled to the bars above and behind him. A needle in each, with a thin yellow tube snaking from the one, and a thin red tube from the other. Qui-Gon's blood, a little voice inside me says matter-of-factly. The rest of me just screams, screams at the window through which the tubes disappear into the other room. Into the realm of the Detecho.

My blood is running cold at the sight of Qui-Gon's red warmth being drained away through a tube. I feel needles smaller than the long steely ones stuck in his wrists, dancing all over my fingertips. I need to get in there, free him, help him...! One thing at a time, Obi-Wan. Get in there. There is a door. With a lock.

I draw a deep breath and let the air out in an open-mouthed sigh. Cold air. He hasn't stirred through all my screaming, but now he is moving, shifting uneasily, groaning. Still not quite awake. Whatever they're feeding him through those tubes, it's keeping him under, as if these bastards knew that the sight of his eyes would calm me in an instant. Hold it, Padawan. There is a lock.

Not even a keyhole in the damn thing. How am I supposed to pick a lock that doesn't give me a starting point to pick my way into? I finger the smooth surface uncertainly, its sheer smoothness goading my fingertips into a clench.

They are taking notes on their little datapads.

I yank at the lock, but of course it won't budge. The Force runs through my clenched fingers and drips off the lock in cool glossy pearls. Sith! This smug little piece of metal is keeping me from my Master -

Well, there's the small matter of the bars. But no amount of probing, tugging, experimental wriggling, or all-out hammering will move them to anything but that little dissonant sigh ever time my hands trail off the metal in despair. Oh yes, a fitting sound. A song of despair. Master. Are you in there? I hear no answer but the troubled heavy breaths and the mocking song of the bars. I rest my forehead against them to still the noise, and feel them unexpectedly cool against my sweaty brows. Calm yourself. Think.

Can't think. Sith sittingroom, he could be close to dying for all I know. And I know how well he holds up against physical strain. Even torture. Not that I've seen him tortured yet, but there's certain other physical strain I have seen him under more times than I care to remember. And I don't mean lightsabre practice. Hell, Obi-Wan, concentrate. Thinking of past pleasures won't get you anywhere. Think.

Can't think. To be honest, I never could think at the sight of him naked. I let out a deep sigh, and he stirs, again, muscles flexing in the confines of the small cage, stretching, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his shoulders, his hair everywhere, lips half-parted. He's so beautiful.

There. The heavy lashes lift, and those deep blue eyes swim into focus. His focus and mine, and I am washed with a wave of relief at seeing him awake, conscious. I love that slight blur in his eyes when he wakes... I only wish he had something to wake to, I wish I was curled up against him now, in a warm bed, and all of this had been just a dream, the manacles, the needles, the tubes, the faceless watchers, the thrice damned cage that's keeping me from him, from his lazy uncomposed early-morning beauty...

The slightest sound, at the edge of hearing again. I start, and struggle to get my eyes off Qui-Gon. The... the door! The lock has sprung open, split into two perfectly symmetrical halves, and the door is slightly ajar. I lose no time, and crawl into the tiny cramped space, kneel next to him, my back against the bars, crouching as I can't even keep my head up in here. He looks at me, calm, exhausted probably.

I won't waste time, Master. Without even pausing for breath or a word, I reach for the needles in his wrists and yank them out in one swift move. Oh no.

They won't come out. Sith they're long! And then the scream hits me, and the knee, thrashing about in wild agony. I freeze, unable to stare  anywhere but into Qui-Gon's face, a mask of terror, features stretched beyond the human in pain.

"Noooooooooooooo!"

It is my voice I hear, and I clutch my hands to my eyes to shut out the terrible sight, and on the edge of vision I see the needles slide into Qui-Gon's flesh again as if they were being sucked into their rightful place. Silence. I open my eyes but dare not look at him for fear of encountering the pain I have inflicted. I look around me. The door has slammed shut.

Silence. I catch my breath and listen, then turn around, wary of the sight. No. He's lying there perfectly peaceful, passed out. Mouth open, eyes fallen shut. Calm. Too calm.

He's not breathing! Shit! I rearrange myself as best I can in the cramped space and press my mouth against his, hard. Breathe, Qui-Gon. Breathe my breath if you haven't got any of your own. Please. Accept this. Don't go.You know I didn't want this. You know what I want, don't you? Please remember me, come back for the memory of me, Qui-Gon...

The lips under mine tense, closing, swallowing. Oh Force, never has this felt so good - I am beyond gratitude as I squeeze more life energy into this soft mouth, restraining myself as best I can. Soothe, Obi-Wan. This is not the time for lust. Force knows how  I wish it were... but reason tells me  if Qui-Gon's not even able to speak he certainly won't be in a position to appreciate erotic advances. What he needs now is rest, and healing energy. I lay a finger into the curve at the bottom of his throat to feel his pulse and pull my lips away from him slightly, just brushing against his now, quietly, soothingly. Rest, Master. Give me some time to clear my mind and get to work on these manacles... yes, that's good, I can feel your pulse calming. Slow, slow.

Slow. Too slow. More beats! Shit, Qui-Gon, use your heart! I won't let you pass out cold again. Throb. One heartbeat, then a long silence, Throb. Another. Breath faltering again. My entire body clenches in defence.

"Qui-Gon! Stay awake, for Force's sake! For my sake!" I am sobbing now, feeling his life-force draining through my fingers, the essence of the man I love more than life itself. "Qui-Gon!!!" I hammer my fists into his chest as if I could beat his heart into submission, to accept my frantic rhythm, scratch the skin of his shoulders raw, and press breath into him again, biting his lips in an effort to keep him awake. Tasting blood. Qui-Gon's blood, the same substance that the thin red tube holds, but warm on my lips. The taste of him, his life. Hot, liquid, metallic. Red stains on his swollen lips, a thin red rivulet trickling into his silvered beard as I pull away from him, breathless. Yes. He's breathing again, heart beating slowly again, and I feel the pulse in his lips as I squeeze hard, half to get more breath into him, half in gratitude at the narrow escape.

And his lips feel so gorgeous. The best thing to hold on to in this situation. I lick the blood off with the tip of my tongue and run my hands over the bright red marks on his shoulders, trying to soothe away the pain. The skin is hot, sweaty, and smells of him. He is all over my senses, and I dimly realise that is a good thing as that ensures he is, and then I let go, into the impossible situation, into the backlash of adrenaline, and feast on the taste of him.

He comes awake under my lips, tongue stretching to meet mine and drawing it back into the moist warmth of his mouth, irresistible somehow and glorious. His eyes flutter open again, and I inadvertently clasp my hand tighter around the pulse-point just above the collarbone but they stay open this time, focused on mine, dazed but wonderfully radiant, a deeper blue than I'd ever seen them. I drown in his eyes and his slowly sucking kiss and the warm moist smooth skin under my hand. And the heavy thick hair tangled all around my other hand. No, this is not inappropriate at all, says my last conscious thought. Even in this position, caged, bound, and drugged, he is still my Master, still my lover, still overwhelmingly beautiful. The least I can do is make this as pleasurable as possible.

Carefully, I allow my hands to slide all over his exposed body, and find him arching into the gentle touch, undulating and writhing dizzyingly, trying to guide my hands to the centre of his need. A wondrous liquid creature under my hands, and a flame of a tongue in my mouth, he takes my breath away and makes it his and releases it in deep low moans, a captive of his own lust much more than of the cage.

I press my back hard into the bars and manage to let a hand slide down to his cock. I nearly burn myself. Force, the heat. Hot, hard, thick and long like a fantasy come true, as if he were here to be my every dream, as if he fed on my growing lust and made it his and fed me my own pleasure transformed into his hard aching sexy beauty, an unending loop of sheer bliss, and oh yes, I feel the spark coursing through me as I squeeze his hardness and he bucks up under me and we both groan into the kiss we can't and won't stop.

I run my palm across the weeping head, slicking myself with the sticky warmth and sliding back down again, and up, establishing a steady rhythm that is echoing through my own body, a counterpoint to the throb of his pulse in those soft hot lips where they are fused to mine. Higher, faster, thick streams of pleasure coursing through his body into mine and back into him through my hand, squeezing him to the point of pain and holding his writhing body down by his throbbing cock, holding on for dear life until the dam bursts and his orgasm rips through him, the roar of release tearing from his mouth into mine and from there down into my body and I gasp in shock and lose contact with his lips for an instant, and find myself crouched over the naked, sperm-slick form of my Master, in a cage and on the brink of orgasm.

More, is all I can think before the red tide washes over me again at the sight of the sheer lust beaming from Qui-Gon's glazed eyes. So gorgeous, so hot, so mine, and so needy... and me so hot and so his and so needy and the barrier between him and me blurs as I slick my aching hardness with his come and plunge into him, unable to wait any longer. It feels like plunging into me, and the pleasure rips through me from all ends of my body at the same time, in great big waves clashing together in the hot spot where my calm centre used to be, splashing over it and going up in great red clouds of steam as I thrust into him half unconscious with rapture.

More, more, more. We melt together, feasting on each other's lips, drinking the pleasure there, eating the willing moist flesh and I forget entirely whether it's me pounding into him or the other way round, lost in the hypnotic rhythm, the spiralling lust, the warm glow in Qui-Gon's eyes, the delicious horny taste of him, him in me, him around me, him being me, we as one, and we come as one and I feel the heat of my own seed erupting deep inside him and arriving deep inside me again in a feedback loop of  pleasure and I scream his name and hear it as mine, in a voice that is mine as much as his. His voice. He is back. My Qui-Gon is back.

It takes a while for my senses to come back, reluctantly, as if unsure whether to re-enter a body that is no longer merely Obi-Wan Kenobi. When they do, I see the familiar soft sated smile on my lover's face, and hear him whispering my name, and feel the soft heavy warmth of his hands on my shoulders. His hands!

The manacles have sprung open, and his hands have come free. Cautiously, I try to remove the needles from his wrists, and they slide out without any trouble. I feel he's in no pain, and watch, mesmerised, as two perfect jewels of blood form in the places where the needles had been. I lap them up with the tip of my tongue, tasting the life returning to him, leaving smooth unscarred skin.

It is a long time until I allow my senses to accept anything other than the presence of my Qui-Gon. There is this sound, insinuating itself into my consciousness from above and beyond. A ripple of sound, amusing and pleasant and agitated. I look up to see the Detecho applauding, chatting excitedly amongst each other, words flying from mouth to mouth in a variety of bewildering accents...

A variety of bewildering mouths, actually. I stare open-mouthed as the light in the cage dims, the reflections in the glass die down and the Detecho show their real faces. Pleased faces, a gamut of joyful flushed expressions, a flurry of hands taking notes on each other's datapads or enthusiastically groping the nearest fellow Detecho. Little joyful noises. A triangular, red-furred face here, quirked in a sly smile. Atop the long feathered  neck, two beaming golden eyes and a beak open wide in a joyous moan. Something scaly and horned, failing to look Sithly altogether. It is running a fin over her neighbour's breast. Yes, her. They are all females, at least as far as the humanoids are concerned, a crowd of chattering, beaming, radiant women!

Puzzled, spent, filled with joy and relief, I clutch Qui-Gon to my chest and bury my face in his hair. On the edge of vision, the last thing I see is a girl with tattered wings, frizzy red hair and what looks suspiciously like a Padawan braid, collapsing exhaustedly onto a sofa, muttering...

"The End..."