Striking Resemblance

by Tem-ve H'syan

Title: Striking Resemblance
Author: Tem-ve H'syan tem-ve@gmx.de
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Crossover between Star Wars: TPM and Batman Begins
Pairings: Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan and Bruce/Ducard to the naked eye
Summary: Exploring the effects of synchronous blows to the head as handy inter-universe travelling portals.
Warnings: Unlikely concepts, a surfeit of Liam Neeson characters, gratuitous hand worship, and some rough sex. Hey, this is a Con*Strict fic, what were you expecting? :)
Notes: First published in the Con*Strict 2006 zine and now graciously released by editrix, con organiser and all-round fandom goddess Sian.

Bruce hated these moments with a passion that totally negated the whole purpose of his training. He hated the split-second of utter clarity, his vision filled with nothing but a swiftly advancing gloved fist and the realisation that said fist was going to crash into his face any moment now, and that whatever he would do would be too little and too late to come between himself and that fist.

It would have to end some day, he knew that, and it would have to end in a tangle of limbs and painful grunts and the concession that finally, Bruce had grown to be Ducard's equal in a fight. Ducard would hate that, of that he was certain. What was even more certain was that he would hate it too, as it precluded any fulfilment of his fantasies of just what those gloved hands would do were they not so hellbent on beating him.

Damn his pride.

He hated that blink of an eye just before defeat, when his focus was shredded enough to leave him wide open and he felt himself filled with the sheer power behind that leather-clad fist, only to be knocked out by it a split second later.

Most of all, he hated how short these moments were.

It had taken Obi-Wan a good few minutes to ascertain the source of the constant twittering and chirping that filled the canopy above their heads. Avian species were out of the question, not just because of the exceptional thinness of the planet's atmosphere but also because there would simply not have been any room among the thick evergreen foliage for anything with a wingspan of more than a hand's breadth.

Peering up, it would have been easy to mistake them for fluttering leaves -generous velvety black leaves filling the spaces between the green and red and purple ones of the more stationary plants. It had been Qui-Gon who had pointed it out to him that they were in fact insectoids - peering along the length of his Master's outstretched finger, he had spotted one resting against the smooth bark of a nearby tree, its inch-long antennae curled into an elegant curve, the perfectly black wings a small pool of deepest shadow in an already dark forest.

It had been daylight when they'd crashed through the canopy in their borrowed cruiser, after spending a fruitless half-day searching for a clearing or an opening in which to land. In the end, Qui-Gon had decided to set down and search at ground level for any signs of the fabled deserted Casta mines, the existence of which was paramount to the drafting of the dying ruler's will.

Ironic, Obi-Wan thought bitterly, that they should send us out here on our own with nothing more than a set of coordinates and a communication device. It was their religious duty to stay close to their monarch in his last hours, of course. Let the offworlders fend for themselves. In a lush tropical forest awash with velvet-winged insects, earthy scents and welcoming shadows. And Qui-Gon Jinn, minus his robe, a lean, broad-shouldered streak of light in the dimness, striding confidently across thick pads of moss that would have made a wonderful bed in which to explore just what a Jedi was made of. just watching those hands swing comfortably by his Master's side gave Obi-Wan the most deliciously inappropriate thoughts. If only he would look behind himself, Obi-Wan thought.

But what would he see? A prim and proper Padawan with his shields shored up. Obi-Wan sighed, then gasped as his foot slid sideways off a smooth root and the forest began being sideways in addition to being dark and scented.

The last thing he saw was that Qui-Gon was indeed looking behind himself, just as Obi-Wan felt his head connect with something hard and full of warm, welcoming darkness.

Bruce felt warm. That wasn't right. Neither was the soft darkness or the fact that he appeared to be lying on something botanical. The scent wasn't right either - none of the wind-swept, smoky sharp mountain air. This was. decadent, earthy, exuberant. Surely his senses were playing tricks on him?

The side of his face hurt. That, at least, felt right.

Cautiously, he cracked one eye open. He was outside, under trees of some kind. The bird noises should have attested to that. It was dark down here on the forest floor, a soft dusky darkness that went perfectly with the wet plant material under him. He would have been ready to stay in that particular pleasant hallucination for a little longer had it not been for the sharply silhouetted profile against the dim light.

Ducard. He tried to sit up, groaned at the throbbing pain in his jaw. Ducard turned around to look at him.

Bruce blinked.

Theatricality and deception all right. Personally, Bruce thought the long hair was overdoing it a little, though he couldn't find it in himself to complain. Not that Ducard stood any chance at ever really disguising himself, not with that mother of a nose in the middle of his face and those piercing blue eyes, both of which were very much in evidence. Also, he'd kept the cut of his clothes and merely changed from black into beige -stranger still.

Squinting, Bruce ascertained that the mane of dry brownish hair was indeed shoulder-length and that he'd faked a little more beard than he normally had. Also, if the light wasn't completely deceiving him, he had made himself look younger that way. There was definitely less grey in the wig and beard than Ducard should by rights have.

The man caught Bruce around the shoulders with one steady arm. "Easy, Padawan. You took a nasty fall there." A gentle hand covered his forehead, fingertips questing for swellings or bruises. "Still, it seems to have left you in one piece, yes?"

Bruce's mouth stood open, and he was momentarily grateful that that strange version of Ducard appeared wholly focused on checking his head for injuries. Why, Henri? Why bother going to all this trouble and then leaving your voice undisguised, still the same weathered rumble laced with the remnants of a public-school accent? Was this some kind of test? Was this a drug-induced fever-dream after all? Or would the spectral Ducard end up finding that Bruce was indeed saddled with a heavy concussion?

The man's fingers seemed to have focused on a spot above his left ear. They were warm, warm blunt fingers that felt as if they had been dipped in something sticky and disturbingly good, something that trickled down his nerves and left them tingling and alert. Without thinking, Bruce's hand flew up to join those fingers. The hair -

The hair they were carding through wasn't his. It felt short and. spiky. The hand, on the other hand, was most decidedly Ducard's. The same broad, sword-callused paw that had featured in so many of his private dreams. He peered at the other hand, resting idly on the man's thigh as he crouched over Bruce. No, most definitely Ducard's hands. Not many men could lay claim to having fingernails twice as wide as they were long.

What, then, had happened to him?

He shook his head slowly, checking for the tell-tale spinning of a drug-induced hallucination. Nothing happened. Ducard merely looked concerned; uncharacteristic behaviour that ratcheted Bruce's level of alarm even higher, for all that he found his ability to be alarmed quite covered under a soft blanket of darkness and scent. Some hit to the head that had been.

The hand on his shoulder blade slid down further, and he had to stop himself from arching into the unexpected touch. It came to rest on his lower back, and Ducard's familiar half-smile made a tentative appearance. Too gentle, Bruce thought distantly. Something is very wrong here.

"Can you stand, Obi-Wan?" the voice demanded, again much too gently. Not that Ducard ever raised his voice, but this could almost be qualified as cooing.

And who was this Obi-Wan? Would he be expected to play along and find a way out of this charade, or was he simply caught up in a private hallucination after being knocked out? He decided to postpone the Obi-Wan issue until he had a better idea of where he was, and why Ducard was acting so strangely.

"I think I can," he hazarded, mildly confused by how smooth his voice sounded. The real shock, though, came once he had managed to get himself upright with the help of Ducard's arm across his lower back.

He stood half a foot shorter than Ducard. And that, of all things, was the wrongest of them all. Instinctively he straightened, trying to unfold his body to reach his accustomed height, but found he couldn't. He was short, and he had short hair, shorter than he had ever worn it in his life. And Ducard's arm had tightened reflexively around his waist, keeping him upright, and he could not find anything wrong with the sensation. There was something about the man's hands that made them appear stripped of their customary harshness, and it was more than just the lack of gloves.

There was that tingling again, spreading from the blunt fingertips searching through his hair, a tingling that spoke to his entire body and awakened a dizzying sensation that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones. Something in this body of his was answering, and he couldn't help giving a small sigh of pleasure when the big hand cupped his face and the tingling sensation momentarily eclipsed the throbbing headache.

"I think we had better get you to a healer," Ducard murmured. "Thank the Force we're not far from the ship yet. Can you."

"The. ship?" The words had slipped out before Bruce had thought better of it. And what healers anyway? Even in the wastes of Bhutan, Ducard was wont to call them 'doctors', for all that they did little justice to that title. But a ship? In a forest? He was beginning to suspect he was indeed the unhappy recipient of a mighty concussion. Just when he'd met the perfect incarnation of Ducard's hands. He sighed heavily.

"Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan, look at me." The urgency in Ducard's voice was unmistakable, though even now it seemed suffused with something like concern. "Obi-Wan, do you remember how we came here? The ship? Do you know who I am?"

Bruce blinked slowly, at a loss for what to say. He had a suspicion 'Ducard' would not match the man's idea of him being an 'Obi-Wan'.

"Obi-Wan. Who am I?" That heavy warm hand cupping his face again, and it was becoming harder and harder not to nuzzle into it. Bruce shook his head slowly, relishing the weight of Ducard's hand against his cheekbone, the way he had always wanted it. The tingling intensified.

"Force," the voice rumbled. "Concussion. We need to get you looked at straight away, Obi-Wan. Stay upright. I'll support your head. There. Do you think you can walk, or shall we try levitating?"

"I. I'll walk," Bruce replied, annoyed with himself for having such a weak-sounding voice. In truth, he felt perfectly capable of walking, just mortally confused and mildly aroused.

Besides, he doubted 'levitating' involved having Ducard's hands anywhere on his inexplicably shortened body.

The ground felt harder than Obi-Wan remembered. Then again, it had been hard enough to knock him out, so that was only logical. The side of his face hurt, but he seemed to be otherwise uninjured. He opened his eyes.

They were under a roof. Qui-Gon must have got them to some sort of shelter. Gingerly, Obi-Wan touched the side of his head. It felt tender and would probably bloom into a massive bruise, but nothing appeared broken or lacerated. He raised himself up on one elbow and looked around the room with a view to finding Qui-Gon.

A heavy hand fell on his other shoulder from behind, and he clattered to the floor again in surprise. That was not like Qui-Gon to.

That was not Qui-Gon. was it? Had they cut all his hair off at that strange birdless sanctuary? And his beard. for want of a better word, Obi-wan found it regrouped around his mouth. Had he been out that long?

Long enough for Qui-Gon to change clothes anyway. The style was familiar, though the natives apparently only had black tunics to spare. They looked good on him, though the absence of Qui-Gon's long hair still itched at the back of his mind.

"M. Master?"

The one raised eyebrow and the slow-blooming lopsided smile were so Qui-Gon it made Obi-Wan's heart leap. Maybe it was just the light in this place that made the lines around Qui-Gon's eyes appear deeper? Maybe they were above the canopy, in the sunlight?

"Master," the voice rumbled. "I think I like that."

Obi-Wan's mouth hung open. That was most definitely Qui-Gon's voice, down to the accent. But what. had he heard that right? More to the point, was he in any way inclined to question it? Quick thinking, Padawan. What is going on here?

What was going on was that one of Qui-Gon's hands, disturbingly clad in a black glove, had slid up his neck and was now holding his throat in a light grip. The thin smile had widened a little, and Qui-Gon's eyes glinted with something cool and fascinating and utterly irresistible.

"So, what would it be for you?" he continued, his calm still unruffled. "Servant? Apprentice? Slave? Whatever takes your fancy, Bruce. All of these can be useful. Never mind enjoyable."

Obi-Wan felt his brows draw together, saw his earnest expression mirrored in Qui-Gon's eyes. Who was 'Bruce'? What charade had Qui-Gon been forced to undergo in order to secure a safe haven on this strange world? And how was he to ascertain whether his role was indeed that of the apprentice or the . slave? He felt something twitch as the gloved hand tightened on his throat. Was it just the gloves (and gauntlets. Where had those come from?), or was there something. other in his touch?

"Silence, Bruce? How uncharacteristic. Have you nothing more to say to me?" The mocking tone added a strange hue to Qui-Gon's voice, one that aroused Obi-Wan's anger as much as it did. other things.

"You're. choking me," he ground out, surprised at the roughness of his voice.

"Am I?" Qui-Gon sounded genuinely amused. "Well, what would you do about that?"

That did it. Whatever the master plan was, this was clearly an incitement to battle, and battle they could do, certainly well enough to make any bystanders believe they were going for each other's lives.

In a blur of motion, Obi-Wan leapt up, all fists and spinning kicks, carefully avoiding actually injuring Qui-Gon while keeping up the appearance of fighting a deadly duel.

The pretence fell flat on its back, along with Obi-Wan, when Qui-Gon kicked a foot out from under him that should not have been there in the first place. The room was Force-shielded, that much he had ascertained already, but surely no alien environment was capable of messing with the length of his limbs?

Qui-Gon was on him again, covering his body full-length, and with a cold shock Obi-Wan realised that Qui-Gon's full length was actually only marginally more than his own, crushed as he was against this black-clad spiky-haired travesty of his Master.

A strand of dark hair had flopped into his face. A gloved hand was carelessly flicking it back behind Obi-Wan's ear before clasping his wrist with the intention of pinning him down.

Obi-Wan had half a mind to let him, just to see what would happen.

They had been walking for a good few minutes now, if this could be called walking at all. Bruce felt like he was being carried along by Ducard's massive strength, half-leaning against him, the contact doing nothing at all to ground him, even through two layers of inexplicably colourless workout tunics.

He had stopped waiting for the fall, for the inevitable waking and the final blow, and had decided to take whatever was going on in his stride. Well, in Ducard's stride, really. He was just hanging on for the ride, clinging to this easy, gentle-handed vision of Ducard whose thigh was rubbing against his with every step and whose palm was radiating warmth across his lower back.

And that tingling feeling. He felt stupid for admitting it, but he could have filled a tub with it and jumped in. He imagined that would be as close to the fabled full-body orgasm as one could get.

As it was, he was quite acutely aware that the bottom of his thin tunics concealed an irresistible erection.

Could he put it down to the drugs, maybe? The alien scents? The freakish black butterflies that were making the air shiver and playing quite successfully into his residual horror of black flappy things, thank you very much? They appeared to be closing in too, settling on his shoulders, on his neck, on his upper thighs, apparently content to just sit there until he shooed them away.

"Pheromones," Ducard observed quietly. "They find you sexually attractive. Of course their idea of consummation is limited to licking your sweat." The wry grin made Bruce want to expose his throat to have his sweat licked. By the one who was inducing it.

Really, what had he to lose?

"That. that's a nice idea," Bruce murmured. "Pity those pheromones don't seem to work on you."

Bruce nearly fell over as Ducard stopped dead in his tracks. A warm firm hand cupped the back of his head, and Bruce parted his lips in anticipation of the delicious assault.

"Obi-Wan," Ducard hissed. What was with the Obi-Wan anyway? "Are you. do you. mean that? Do you even know what you are doing?"

"Yes," Bruce slurred, the throbbing in his groin intensified by the full-on contact with both of those divinely tingling hands. "You."

A heavy sigh, then Ducard's eyes reopened, their piercing blue softened by something alien and alluring. "I thought you'd never ask," bearded lips murmured against his mouth before homing in for the kill.

Bruce was quite sure he was in a dream now, and a small shard of sense in the back of his brain just hoped it would hold out long enough for him to achieve release. The rest of his brain was busy being reduced to mush by the incredible sensations.

Touches, there were touches everywhere. The spongy moist moss under his back and buttocks as he fumbled to free himself of his unfamiliar clothes, to get more of those touches on his sweaty skin. The tips of Ducard's freakishly long hair, the touch of those lips, that tongue. he was making good on his promise, licking him all over, savouring him like some alien delicacy, sharing him with an increasing number of the shifty black butterflies that made the air above their tangled bodies flicker with velvet wings and eager curved antennae. He felt the cool gentle batting of their wings against his heated skin as he bucked up into the fluttering throng, his entire body electrified by the wonders Ducard was doing to him.

That was his mouth. On his cock. Sucking, licking, eating it up as if that was what it was made for. The hands, those hands, one slowly squeezing his tightening balls while the other exerted gentle pressure on the swollen flesh behind his cock, one blunt fingertip caressing his anus. oh God, harder!

Just imagining Ducard down there, servicing him and humming in pleasure, his bobbing head crowned with velvet-black butterflies basking in the cloud of his own pheromones. it was too much. Just too much.

With a shout that sent the butterflies reeling, Bruce gave himself over to the delicious madness and the warm enveloping black that followed it.

"The game is over, Bruce," Qui-Gon said, the menace of his tone sharp despite the quietness of his voice. "Yield."

"What would I get?" Obi-Wan replied, cocky now. "What would you possibly be able to give me, Master?"

"A few less bruises," Qui-Gon suggested with a biting smirk. "Unless that's what you're playing at with this whole charade."

Charade? Obi-Wan scowled. What right had he to accuse him of a charade? If there was anyone who had been tricked in this room, it was he, Obi-Wan! Saddling him with the illusion of height and black hair flopping in his face. he would have to have an earnest word with Qui-Gon about past Padawan issues once they got back to Coruscant.

At least he insisted on calling him 'Bruce' and not Xanatos. His way of saving face, perhaps?

Obi-Wan couldn't believe he was rationalising. He would have slapped himself, had this been possible. He was pinned under a very masterful and evidently willing Qui-Gon. Holding him down by his wrists. Calling him servant, and slave (and 'Bruce', but that was neither here nor there really). Wearing black. And leather gloves.

Whatever had brought this about, he would be damned if he let that opportunity slip.

To arms.

"I yield, then," he purred, parting his thighs slightly. "Give me your hardest, Master."

Before he had time to contemplate how odd his voice sounded on that last word, he found himself spun around and slammed to the floor, his legs tucked under him, his bottom exposed as a spiked gauntlet tore open his leggings and a gloved hand squeezed his swollen penis almost to the point of pain. He yelled in surprise and pain as he felt himself impaled on a hard cock with nothing but their sweat to ease the passage.

It hurt like hell. It was Qui-Gon inside him. Qui-Gon tearing into him with brute force, giving his all, taking him, possessing him. What was left of Obi-Wan's brain melted into sublime madness when he felt himself grabbed and lifted, impaled even deeper by his own weight, the harsh metal of the gauntleted forearm hard across his throat and the bite of teeth on his shoulder that melted into a ravenous kiss.

This was his. This was his Master on him, around him, inside him, hard and brutal and focused wholly on him, and it felt divine.

He felt a little like he was about to die, and he welcomed the darkness when it came, smothering him under a blanket of urgent desperate painful lust.

Bruce awoke inexplicably half-dressed and on his knees. Those were floorboards underneath him.

That was. that was Ducard's arm across his throat, slackening as if struck by lightning. He could feel the familiar bulk of the man on his back, warm and sweaty. He could feel something even warmer slipping out of his aching body, followed by a trickle of. oh no, that wasn't. was it.?

It was. Ducard, rolling off him with the kind of heavy grace that belied his greying temples. The grey hair was back in place. As were the gloves and, judging by the feeling in his arse, the familiar brutality. Where had he been while all this had been going on? And, more to the point, who had Ducard been fucking so hard meanwhile?

He gasped as Ducard pinched his nipple, but made no move to resist. He was perfectly willing to soak up the afterglow of a good hard fuck even if that was all he would ever get from Ducard.

"'Master', huh? Is there something you would like to tell me, Bruce?" The amusement in Ducard's voice was hard to ignore, as was, thankfully, the sated pleasure. "Or would you prefer I find out for myself? That might take longer. And would doubtless require long series of experiments."

Just in time, Bruce masked his eager pounce as a punch. Ducard understood anyway, caught Bruce's fist in one palm and bent it backwards until Bruce's pained gasp left him open-mouthed enough to set the scene for the first series of experiments.

Splashes of warm rain spattered Obi-Wan's skin when the darkness receded. The scents of the forest swamped his senses, and he groaned, dizzy with the sensation. The complete absence of pain disoriented him a little, as did the fact that he was on his back, and naked save for the insistent flutter of the black insectoids.

And that. wasn't rain.

He opened his eyes just in time to catch the last of Qui-Gon's orgasm, marvelled at the sight of his Master with his palm wrapped around himself, fully clothed except for his eager cock. The expression of almost painful bliss on his face was. he felt like jumping in and drowning in it.

Judging by the warm glow in his veins and the cooling splash of seed on his belly, he had had a great time too while his mind was busy being fucked into mush by some Sithly incarnation of his Master. Shaking his head, Obi-Wan levered himself off the ground with a groan, only to find himself caught in Qui-Gon's arms, his face buried in the familiar tangled mane.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon whispered, his voice choked with unexpected emotion, "thank you. Thank you for giving me this once. Even if you may never remember it. I am."

Qui-Gon found himself interrupted by a small but hard hand in his hair, pulling him back to face his apprentice, the line between his brows prominent and oh so lickable. A pair of the delicate insectoids had settled in his hair like an utterly incongruous flower.

"What are you talking about, Master?"

Qui-Gon stared. The recognition was evident in that last word and the puzzled frown on Obi-Wan's face. Silently, he thanked the Force for whatever tangle of probabilities had made this moment possible.

Silently because his mouth was busy devouring Obi-Wan's, of course.

--- the end ---