Dedication: For Christy, who knows all about sharing a good
thing.
Disclaimers: All Star Wars characters, with the exception of
original creations, are the property of George Lucas and no
copyright infringement is intended or implied.
The time has come for a bath.
Or at least a shower, a sprinkling of water across my brow and
shoulders, perhaps even across the horizon, relieving the heat
and dust of this dry little nothing backwater of a planet. Why
Qui-Gon and I have been requested to come here is beyond me and
I can't believe we've spent as much time on Sumax as we have.
In all truth, if the Senate seriously thinks that a terrorist
organization is based here, they are sadly mistaken--this
planet has nothing to appeal to the criminal element--there are
no trade routes nearby, no military or industrial centers, no
obvious targets or sanctuaries of any sort. In the past three
weeks, all we have found here are farmers struggling to pull
harvests of Sweetgrass and Jalla melons from the apathetic
land.
The few authorities we've encountered are kind enough, but
ignorant of galactic politics in general and seem happy to stay
that way. Qui-Gon finds it all amusing. I find it boring to the
extreme. Now we are stuck at a little spaceport town, waiting
for the next interplanetary shuttle to take us to yet a bigger
spaceport town for the second leg of the trip back to
Coruscant.
It doesn't help matters either, that I am feeling the return of
my red appetite as well; a familiar craving is nudging my
stomach every time I look at my master. If he senses it, he
hides it well and says nothing. Qui-Gon and I both know that my
feeding will have to wait until our return to the capitol and
the privacy of our compartments. At the moment I am impatient,
hot and tired. My master on the other hand, is fascinated by a
yard full of reconstructed droids that we are passing by.
"Genuine Ba'alt servos . . . " he muses, prodding at a triangle
of rusty green metal with a finger. "I haven't seen one of
these in thirty years."
"A piece of junk," I peevishly snap. "I'm sure it can't even
*move* anymore, let alone harvest." The back of my neck is
sticky with sweat, and the hazy afternoon light is giving me a
heat rash. I never minded the sunlight until after my death and
subsequent change--now any extended exposure to it is
unbearable. Qui-Gon doesn't seem to notice my discomfort, which
annoys me further; he drops to his haunches and leans closer to
the servo unit, studying it intently.
I sense a presence. Looking up I meet the wistful gaze of a
young woman. She's several meters away, standing in the doorway
of the workshop, watching the two of us and I'm struck by how
completely still she is. Her long hair is hidden under a black
gauze veil, and her wan pale face is petite, oval-shaped. Only
her large amethyst eyes seem alive in this muggy heat and I nod
to her, receiving a small smile in return.
"If you remember Ba'alt servos, then you are definitely
off-worlders," she calls out. Qui-Gon looks up, slightly
startled. The girl slowly crosses the yard to us, stepping
around various 'bots and droids until she's right next to me.
The faint scents of cinnamon and yeast cling to her hands and
long skirt; even Qui-Gon smells the residue of her baking and
smiles appreciatively as he stands up again.
"Poor old things. I charge them up once in a while and let them
mow the lawn around the spaceport," she murmurs. "They were
built with a work ethic you see, and cannot stand sitting
around idle for very long."
Her voice has an old-fashioned inflection; she sounds like one
of the senior senators. Before I can figure out which one,
Qui-Gon holds out his hand to her. She takes it and shakes it,
smiling shyly.
"I am Qui-Gon Jinn, and this is Obi-Wan Kenobi," my master
introduces me. The girl extends her hand to mine, and her
fingers are cool, her skin cobweb soft.
"Vossa Galleon."
As we shake hands I have the unsettling impression she knows
not only who I am, but *what* I am. There is no fear in those
light violet eyes, not a trace of it, and the response rising
in me is an odd one of relief. Before I can ponder the meaning
of it, her smile is wider.
"Come out of the heat, padawan Kenobi and rest yourself. The
weather isn't doing you much good," she tells me. Qui-Gon
shoots a concerned glance in the direction of the spaceport.
Vossa nods. "I'm certain that there is enough time, Master
Jinn. The shuttle won't be leaving for at least two hours."
"If you are sure . . ." he hesitates, giving her a strange
look. Vossa makes an affirmative sound and leads the way to the
workshop without looking back to see if we will follow. Her
self-assurance is refreshing and unnerving; Qui-Gon is torn as
to whether to take up her offer of hospitality or not. I have
fewer qualms and a strong desire to get into the cool shade. I
nudge his arm gently.
"Shall we?"
"Yes," Giving one last fond look at the ancient servo, Qui-Gon
wipes his dusty hands on his trousered thighs and heads for the
workshop door. I follow him, reaching the shadowy interior of
the workshop just as he does, hoping that this little
diversionary visit will make the time go faster. Vossa is
attractive, and I have always known that Qui-Gon is a man of
universal appeal--it will be interesting to see what happens.
The shop is surpassingly tidy and deliciously dim. Gleaming
tools and devices hang neatly on hooks over the workbenches;
the scents of machine oil and solder and ozone hang in the air,
along with a stronger fragrance of freshly baked pastry.
Qui-Gon's stomach growls. I hide my grin and look around the
walls as he rumbles under his breath,
"It *has* been almost two days since I've eaten, young
padawan--"
"--It's been weeks since you've eaten *this* young padawan--"
"Patience--"
The sound of Vossa's soft shoes on the stone paved floor grows
louder and she returns, waving us to the door connecting the
shop to her home. Qui-Gon needs no urging this time, but I
linger behind a moment, my attention distracted by the shop.
Carefully I run my gaze over it again, and it suddenly strikes
me that it is *too* clean for a working place of business.
There is no dust, but there is no sense of accomplishment here
either--it feels as if the owner has gone away on a trip and
hasn't opened up again yet. This sense of unease prickles at
the back of my neck, but dutifully I head for the door, tracing
the sounds of voices to find the others.
In the kitchen, Vossa is setting a plate before Qui-Gon, who is
unsuccessfully protesting. She gives me a look over his head, a
matter-of-fact glance that makes my grin break out again.
"I know a stomach rumble when I hear it, Master Jinn. Now eat
before that poor beast devours you from the inside out," she
scolds. Qui-Gon surrenders, and meekly permits her to serve up
hot cinnamon buns. I pull up a chair and watch him for a
moment. A melancholy wish that I could join him in eating those
fragrant, warm treats stabs through me and I look away before
he sees it. Vossa hands me a wet cloth.
"For your face and neck . . ." she tells me in a gentle voice.
Once again, the odd feeling that she understands my situation
prevails. I take the cloth and run it across my features,
letting the water kiss my skin, hoping it will carry away not
only the dust on my face, but my concerns as well. Ahh--she's
added mint to the water, and the chill of it is a delight. When
I pull the cloth away from my face, both Qui-Gon and Vossa are
smiling at me.
"So there *is* someone under all that dust," comes her soothing
voice. She is sitting at the table now, elbows on it, looking
intently at my face. If I could blush, I suppose I would, but
she doesn't seem to notice, so I stare back at her, noting
features I missed earlier.
Our hostess has glossy dark brown hair framing her face under
the black scarf. The skin across her petite face is tight,
revealing sharp cheekbones underneath. Her full lips are pale,
her nose small and sprinkled with freckles. The hollows of her
throat are deep, and I feel a sudden fantasy take over as
mentally I sink fangs into the slender curve of her neck, just
under the delicate shell of her ear. Her blood would be sweet,
like honey mixed with spices. Vossa's lips twist into a wry
smile and she breaks off our contest.
"Fair enough, young Jedi--I suppose I *was* staring," she
admits. Qui-Gon glances at me for a second and speaks up. His
question is casual, but I recognize the wariness behind his
words.
"How did you know we're Jedi?"
"Well his braid, of course. The three principle elements of the
universe," she recites. "The Force, the Individual, and the
Choice. All padawans wear it, but I don't have to tell you what
you know already. I've met quite a few Jedi in my many years,
Master Jinn." She pushes another cinnamon bun at him. Absently
he takes it and watching him, I listen to the beat of his
pulse, which sounds loud and lonely to me in the quiet kitchen.
Suddenly I'm on my feet, lightsaber up and flashing, slicing
through the tablecloth as I realize the cold truth:
She's a Demon.
Qui-Gon too, is already at the draw as we stand back to back,
lightsabers parallel, ready to fight. Wisps of smoke from the
burning tablecloth fill the air. The deadly hum of our weapons
reverberates throughout the room. Vossa hasn't moved. She sits,
looking up at us with those huge eyes; I falter for a moment.
"Please stop," the low lullaby of her voice requests. "I am no
threat to you."
In the long pause that follows, I feel my fangs distend in an
instinctive reaction.
"How can you prove that?" Qui-Gon demands tightly. Now I can
hear his elevated heart rate, and feel the tension racing
through in his body as his back presses to mine. I sense his
desire to protect me at all costs and a reciprocal urge flushes
through me.
"You have shared the hospitality of my table without harm," she
reminds us, and her voice still carries that old-fashioned
inflection that makes me think of years past. I look at
Qui-Gon; he is my master and I must follow his judgement.
Swiftly, he flicks the blade off and resheathes the handle on
the belthook under his cloak. Anger darkens his face and I know
he feels as betrayed as I do. Vossa sighs and pinches out a
smoking ember on the edge of the tablecloth, her pale fingers
picking up soot as she does so.
"Don't you remember that fear leads to anger, anger leads to
hate and hate leads to the Dark Side of the Force, Master
Jedi?" An odd look crosses Qui-Gon's face; he wants to laugh
and frown at the same time. Vossa points her sooty finger at
him.
"Impulsive you are, dangerous this is--tell me, does Master
Yoda still spout those stupid little truisms with that smug
smile of his?"
A long pause follows.
Qui-Gon does laugh, and I find myself joining him; her mimicry
of the old Jedi Master is nearly perfect, and despite the
obvious danger of our situation, it does feel good to let some
of the tension go. Vossa smiles, pleased with herself and
motions for us both to sit down again.
"Yoda--I haven't thought of him in nearly a century, but he was
one of the first Jedi I ever met."
"How old are you, anyway?" I blurt out, unable to restrain
myself. She looks to be in her early twenties, but when she
turns those amethyst eyes to me, I suddenly see the mysterious
facets of centuries in them. She sighs once again.
"Lad, I was born in the third year of the Republic."
Qui-Gon and I share a shocked glance. Vossa closes her eyes and
stretches her fingers out over the table. She speaks quickly
and sadly, as if this old familiar story is burned into her
memory and listening to her, I suspect it is.
And such a tale! Losing her life to a demon in the sands of
Talanaria, rising a day later to begin hunting. Years of fear,
hate and blood as she drained life from hundreds of beings,
moving from world to world, century to century, life to life.
Vossa speaks of meeting the builders of Coruscant, of working
for the First of the Hutts. She describes the horrors and
delights of her life with equal gravity, leaving Qui-Gon and
myself listening in rapt silence. I look on her white face and
wonder how anyone could stay sane through all that.
I wonder if I will stay sane should I survive as long as she
has.
She looks up, and smiles, as if sensing my thoughts, and
reaches out one of those small hands to mine. The pressure of
her touch is light.
"You will, Obi. From the very beginning, you drank what was
freely given, and that makes all the difference."
The confused expression on my face makes her laugh in a very
knowing way; even Qui-Gon is looking amused at my expense, and
my annoyance comes through loud and clear.
"I don't see any difference. When I drink, it's all a matter of
feeding my hunger for the moment, and moving on."
"That's where you're wrong, padawan. Try drinking from an
unwilling, terrified, unaroused victim sometime," she snaps
back at me. Through her grip on my fingers I sense a flood of
anger and fatigue coursing through her system, washing from her
to me. I sense something else too--a hollow aching pain from
some unhealed wound.
"How long has it been since *you've* fed, Vossa Galleon?"
She stiffens, and pulls her hand away, but some little mean
spirit in me won't let her have the last word, even if she is
centuries older than I am. I know Qui-Gon is getting annoyed
with me; I can hear him clearing his throat warningly, but I
refuse to back down.
"How long?"
Finally she pushes herself away from the table and rises, with
all the dignity of a queen going to her execution. Vossa
motions to the back door and walks through it. Curious now,
both Qui-Gon and I stand then follow her, stepping out into the
fields behind the house. The sickly yellow light of the sky
tells me that a storm is coming tonight, and a hot, dry wind is
desperately whipping the grass at our feet. I am dimly aware
that we have missed out shuttle, but it doesn't matter
now--Vossa is leading us to a pyramid marker in the distance.
I am feeling ashamed at having goaded her, but it is too late
to turn back. Impulsiveness isn't generally a quality in my
nature--most who know me would agree to that assessment--but
something about this Demon is bringing it out in me. Finding
another person who shares my affliction is fortuitous. Finding
one who can teach me about living with it is nothing short of
amazing. From the look on Qui-Gon's face I see he's thinking
along the same lines and without a word spoken between us, the
decision is made; we will stay, at least for the night. I hurry
to catch up to Vossa intending to apologize. She has reached
the pyramid.
It is a man's tombstone, with dates marking an eighty-year
span. The grass around it is neatly trimmed, and flowers adorn
the base.
"Ky?", she calls.
The pyramid hums and from it rises the ghostly image of a
hologram. The man is lanky, with straight black hair nearly
waist long, and a trimmed beard. His smile is a generous grin.
Vossa reaches out a hand, letting it pass through his shoulder;
she isn't crying, but I can hear tears in her voice.
"Ky Galleon, my mate. He died of a fever last year," she
murmurs. "I haven't fed since that day."
I stare at her, stunned by the enormity of her grief. I
tremble. A year without feeding--no wonder she's so pale and
moves so slowly. I cannot grasp the concept of choosing to
starve to death, to wear that voracious red hunger day in and
day out, like a shroud. Qui-Gon moves behind her, gripping her
thin shoulders in comforting support. She continues to gaze at
the hologram.
"We had sixty good years between the two of us. Ky gave me the
soul I never thought I could regain."
"No, Vossa. He merely cultivated and nourished the one that was
always within you," Qui-Gon tells her. She smiles, bleakly, and
turns away from the pyramid. The wind is whipping at her
widow's scarf; I desperately want to say the right thing, and
nothing comes to mind. Suddenly I feel petty, selfish, and
very, very young.
The storm has arrived. Outside the wind is moaning like a
wounded animal and the rain pounds steadily on the windows. We
are in the main room of the house, a warm dry den. I'm cleaning
boots, wiping mud and grass off of them as I ponder how to
approach Vossa. Certainly she has much she could teach me, and
I may never have another chance to learn from a kindred being.
But I am unsure how to ask her, and my behavior earlier doesn't
give me any courage. My hunger is getting more insistent as
well. It sparks a question, and I turn to Vossa, who is tending
the blaze in the fireplace.
"If you don't eat food, why did you bake cinnamon rolls?"
She looks over at me, a slightly blank expression shifting to
surprise. One hand dusts dirt off the other as she replies.
"Habits die hard. I usually bake once a week, and take the
rolls to the cantina near the spaceport. Give me something to
do, and keeps me in practice I suppose. Besides, I like the
smell--reminds me of better times."
"Ah." I sound like a pompous idiot.
There is a silence that follows this; Qui-Gon is in a corner of
the room, disassembling his lightsaber and cleaning the
crystals in it. He is humming to himself, softly. Vossa smiles
at the sound and seems to come to a decision as she glides over
to me. She bends down to grip my wrists and says,
"Set the boots down. I want to show you something, Obi."
There is something teasing and light in her voice, something
flirtatious. Slowly I set the footwear aside and rise, wiping
my hands on the edge of my tunic to buy time. She's small; I'm
easily a good head taller than she is and Qui-Gon will
positively tower over her, I realize. Vossa turns around and
backs up to me, pressing her spine against my chest and
abdomen. Her hands reach for mine, pulling them around her
waist as if she's tying a belt. I suppose the confused
expression on my face *does* look silly because Qui-Gon is
gravely amused, watching us.
"Tighter. Hold me as if I were the dearest, most precious thing
in your life," she commands. I take a breath out of habit and
assess the situation quickly: a sweet-smelling and very pretty
woman is molded to my body, urging me to wrap myself around
her. It's strange. It's exciting. It's not in any Jedi teaching
or lesson I've ever had and suddenly I am torn. Although my
love for Qui-Gon is strong, a flush of lust for Vossa surges
up, leaving me ashamed and aroused. I dare not look at my
master as my arms quickly encircle her tiny waist.
"Wonderful, You're certain you have me now?" she breathlessly
murmurs over her shoulder. I can barely nod, wondering what in
the seven hells she's trying to do, and hoping that whatever it
is, it will feel even better. The swell of her rounded bottom
pressing against me is creating a splendid sensation. Her dark
hair smells of warm sweetgrass. My fangs sprout of their own
accord, reacting as quickly and urgently as the rest of my body
does as I try to tighten my grip on her--
She's gone. Thin filaments of mist rise up from my clasped
arms, lazily drifting around me in a lacy pattern of white
smoke, leaving me with an armful of empty dress. Startled and
bewildered, I drop the garment, brush away the haze and glance
around the room, trying to figure out this conjure trick. A
soft laugh floats in the room. Even Qui-Gon looks unsettled as
he watches me whirl about, looking for Vossa.
"Transfiguration. I've heard of it, but never have seen it
happen before, " my master rumbles. I reach for the mist,
letting my hand pass through it as I call out,
"Vossa?"
"Here . . ." the faint whisper answers. " . . . And here . . .
" the gossamer strands of our hostess drift towards Qui-Gon to
wrap around his shoulders and ribs. He glances at the smoky
strands caressing him, and a sensual expression passes over his
features; a hooded look of smoldering desire.
I growl. Jealousy's lightning strikes me and I fly across the
room as Vossa shimmers back into substantiality, her slender
bare arms cradling my master's form. I seize her throat in my
hand, clenching tightly enough to choke the unlife out of her
if need be.
She vapors out again, leaving me with a fistful of wispy fog
and her voice echoes in the room once more, cutting through my
rage. Qui-Gon returns to the pieces of his lightsaber, his
expression carefully neutral although I can sense the
disapproval coming off him in waves.
"Temper temper--I never intended to poach, young Obi-Wan."
"I don't believe you," comes my curt reply. How I hate the ugly
sound of my voice, thick with jealousy and hunger, and how
easily I have let the veneer of civility be torn from me! I
feel pressure against my back.
She's there, naked, looking fragile and sad, her little fingers
toying with my braid, her full breasts pressing on my
shoulderblade. It takes me a moment to control myself and cut
off the flood of conflicting sensations in me. Vossa speaks
first, her lips tantalizingly close to my ear. She lets one
delicate catlike fang touch it.
"If I had truly wanted your master, he would have been mine
before he even finished crossing my doorway this afternoon,
lad. I don't deny he's powerfully attractive, brimming with the
sort of sexual vitality that could keep me well fed for a few
decades," she breathes. "But thine he is, and thine he shall
stay. I merely wanted to show you the changing I can do. Have
you a talent for it?"
"I-I-I don't think so, " I stammer after a moment's pleasure of
her touch. I cannot believe the intensity of her seductive
power, affecting me even through my anger and suspicion. Truly
this is a demon to be reckoned with. Mingling trepidation and
lust, I turn to her, looking down into those lavender eyes,
wondering if she can read my mind before I speak. She refuses
to help me, and stands waiting for me to say something. I am
acutely aware of her body, of the curves and hollows and scents
that are so different from Qui-Gon's and yet in this moment,
just as alluring.
"Why are you choosing to starve to death?" I demand, my hands
longing to touch her. Even Qui-Gon is listening closely for the
answer, his expression alert and curious. I enjoy the way the
firelight gleams off his silky hair as he looks up.
"Because I am too old, too tired and too sad to find a lover,
Obi-Wan," she replies, touching my temple with a gentle finger
stroke. "To search out someone who is willing to give me succor
with blood and soul is very hard to do and right now I am so
weak that I doubt I will exist beyond the next phase of the
moons."
"But--" Although I despise my condition at times, the thought
of deliberately ending it rarely occurs to me, and certainly
not in the fashion Vossa has chosen. Out of the corner of my
eye, I see that Qui-Gon has finished reassembling the
lightsaber.
"I wait for my final dissolution into the Force, " Vossa sighs.
"Perhaps to rejoin Ky at last."
"Ah, but consider how wasteful that will be," Qui-Gon breaks
in. He flicks the blade on and swings it around, testing it
absently as he thinks aloud. "You have strength and wisdom
borne of the centuries. Think of the good you might still
accomplish with it." As his comment ends, he pauses before the
two of us, looking down from one face to the other. I sense a
whisper of despair in him battling with the hope that Vossa
might be talked out of her suicide. He clicks the lightsaber
off, and the bumblebee hum of it dies away.
For one second, a bright gleam of hope sparks in her eyes, only
to fade as she drops her gaze. Ah the incongruity of our
situation! Two Jedi arguing philosophy with a naked girl--Mace
Windu would blush; Yoda would shake his head and sigh. Only
Qui-Gon makes it seem like a normal course of events. It's not
as if his body is unaware of her--I smell the light sweat of
excitement on his skin--but as with so many other
circumstances, my master is able to keep things in balance.
And I instantaneously weigh the options before us as Qui-Gon
bends down to scoop up the abandoned dress and hand it to
Vossa.
I could ask Qui-Gon to seduce her. Surely if he offered
himself, Vossa would be compelled to drink as they made love.
It's an exciting, jealousy-tainted image in my mind, picturing
the two of them locked in the throes of passion.
I could seduce her myself. Not with empty veins as I have now,
but after taking my fill of Qui-Gon's blood, I could slip into
her bed and bare my throat to her. To lock my arms around her
again, and luxuriate in the grateful sensuality of another
demon--
I start, realizing the truth in a quick flash of insight: it
will take both of us, Qui-Gon and me, to keep her from true
death. Although sexual enticement is not a widely taught or
practiced Jedi activity, I know from my experiences with my
master that his compassion and sensuality find their recipients
with unerring accuracy. I look at him.
Qui-Gon has the dress in his hand; instead of giving it to
Vossa, he brings it up to his face and draws in a deep breath.
She gives him a startled look; he sighs, a slow smile spreading
across his face.
"Vossa, you wear the sweet smells of rain and grass, yeast and
cinnamon, repairmans' oil and woodsmoke." he tells her in a low
voice. I want to laugh--not because his remark is funny, but
because he has obviously come to the same conclusion I have.
Qui-Gon's penchant for strays is legendary, and if this is the
start of his seduction, then I have but to follow. A niggling
doubt about my ability to share my master comes to mind and I
shove the thought away--better to concentrate on the moment and
let the Force draw us together.
Slowly I shift until I am behind Vossa, and look up past her
dark hair to Qui-Gon's glittering blue stare. His eyes touch
mine briefly; a half smile confirms my suspicion. I give a slow
nod; Qui-Gon would not need my permission, only my approval.
Between us, Vossa stands still as a statue, apprehension
radiating from her lithe form. The age old response of fight or
flight is evident in her stance.
"As a Jedi, I am bound by a moral code, and I cannot let you
die without offering you whatever is needed to sustain you," he
rumbles, one large hand reaching out, palm up. Deliberately, he
draws somet the softness of her
skin. She gives a whimper of pleasure, and I whisper,
"Take it, Vossa. Take it and live on. There is still so much
that only you can teach me . . ."
"But Ky . . ." comes her protest, heartfelt and torn. I sense
Qui-Gon moving closer, trapping her in between us. I'm hoping
she's too confused to think of transforming away so I run my
hands up the sides of her arms and continue kissing her
shoulder, losing myself in the lovely taste of her skin.
As I do this, my mind is conflicted, divided into smaller
fragments, each grappling with a different consideration. A
part of me is still struggling with jealousy, hating the very
thought of sharing Qui-Gon's liquid soul with this interloper.
Another part is madly excited at the thought of bedding Vossa,
experiencing all the new delights of a partner in blood. Yet
another fragment of my mind is caught up with sheer sensory
input: the marble coolness of her shoulder, the soft scent of
herbs in her hair, the sound of Qui-Gon's quick breathing as he
waits for her to answer my plea.
The texture of her skin reminds me of cream, cool and fragrant
as I nibble my way up the back of her neck, lifting her heavy
glossy hair out of the way. I realize that I am on the right
track as she shivers. I hide a predatory smile that flashes
across my features--it's always a secret delight to seduce
successfully.
There is a slow shift of her stance, the weightless twist of
waist and shoulder and neck that bring her face to within
inches of mine. Neither of us breathe, but in the space where
our exhalations would have mingled there is a newborn awareness
of each other.
One glance at Qui-Gon and I can see that he is serenely aware
of his part in all this. He has loosened his robe, revealing
his throat and neck, quietly offering them to us. Both Vossa
and I can feel the thrumming vibration of his pulse through the
air. She is weakening, melting at the sight of this
full-blooded male sacrifice. I whisper into her ear.
"Live, Vossa. Through us, live . . ."
She raises her face to the ceiling, lips parting, a soft
mewling sound escaping her throat. Qui-Gon steps closer,
sensing that the moment is right; he reaches out a hand to cup
the side of her face, his thumb rubbing her lower lip almost
teasingly. The sight fires my hunger; my own hands slide down
and around Vossa's form to cup her breasts. She presses back
against me, grinding against the trousers that barely restrain
my cock. My gasp makes her smile. Qui-Gon's hand is stroking
the side of her throat now, his other hand stretching past her
to caress my shoulder. The fact that he has reached for me as
well is such a comforting reassurance that I look at him,
unable to stop my emotions from showing on my face. He locks on
my gaze, his stare smoldering with lust.
Vossa impatiently plucks at Qui-Gon's robe, unable to focus
properly on the task of stripping him. My hands are teasing her
nipples now, pinching them lightly, rolling them between my
fingertips. The sweet heft of her chest is a marvelous
sensation, and I want to bury my face there. Unhurriedly my
master pulls away from Vossa and shrugs off his clothes,
casting them aside easily. The firelight gleams off his skin,
highlighting his raw-boned physique in golden hues. Vossa and I
sprout our fangs at the same time, but Qui-Gon shows no fear.
The thick length of his cock shifts as he reaches both hands
back to untie his hair. Vossa squirms in my grasp, the Force
rolling off her in hot desperate waves while I let one hand
slide down her stomach to cup between her thighs, gliding my
fingers through the incredibly soft triangle of fur there.
I am so hard I ache.
I struggle remembering that I must submit to Vossa and I fight
my own desire to take her right here and now. I slow the pace
of my touch, letting Qui-Gon step forward and drop a kiss to
the girl's forehead as he presses his body to hers. The
pleasure that surges through Vossa reaches me too in one
jolting current. Her sigh echoes between the three of us.
She turns her head and whispers to me,
"I ask your leave to feed, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Give me but one
part, and I will feed *you* a ten times over."
I have no idea what she means by the latter of her words, but I
nod my assent and feel her slip out of my grip and into
Qui-Gon's. He cradles his powerful hands around the satiny
flesh of her bottom and lifts her to him easily. His cock
slides up and beyond her flesh, jutting out between her
buttocks towards me. Vossa brushes his hair away from his neck,
and I can see Qui-Gon's lips tighten in anticipation as she
runs a tongue over the side of his throat. He lifts her higher,
freeing his cock from the weight of her.
She bites delicately, gently, like a cat. Qui-Gon shudders; I
can feel his cock throbbing into thicker harder dimensions as
stroke it in my hands. Vossa drinks. One, two, three deep
swallows and she lifts her head, a long low moan of
satisfaction soaring out of her. I am amazed--three gulps?
After nearly a year of starvation, all she takes are three
gulps?
Qui Gon's breathing is harsh and heavy. I drop to my knees and
eagerly take him into my mouth, nearly choking on the impatient
length of him. Velvet hardness thrusts down my throat. Blindly
I cup his heavy balls, feeling them tighten as his climax
begins to overtake him. Qui-Gon gives a deep animal groan,
clutching Vossa tightly as he spurts across the back of my
tongue. I drink him down, but the taste of him only sharpens my
hunger to a keen blade of red desire. I rise, blindly shoving
forward, but cool hands grip my shoulders.
Vossa has freed herself from Qui-Gon's embrace; behind her, my
master slumps to the clothes-strewn floor, resting, recovering.
Vossa slips one hand around the back of my neck, and the other
around my turgid cock. I stifle a groan.
"Feed on *me* little one . . ." she tenderly commands, and I
resist no longer. Clutching her tightly, I carry her to the
ground next to Qui-Gon and press my fangs to the pearl
whiteness of her throat. Vossa arches her head back, and her
hands, her amazing hands are guiding me forward as I plunge
into both slick wetnesses at the same moment--
There are no words to properly convey the sensation. One taste,
one sip at the scarlet from her neck and I am filled with
flavors I thought lost to me in my affliction: Sun-warmed
peaches, rich lamb stew, bread, chocolate, wine. My body
thrusts forward, ploughing into the tight wetness between
Vossa's thighs. She thrusts back, legs wrapping around me,
pulling me in deeper and harder. Rising up from her throat, I
loom over her small frame, my body now joined with with hers in
the oldest dance known. Pleasure sears through me, scalding my
spirit as I gasp, and pour myself into her.
I float away for long moments, gliding on white afterglow,
feeling the Force re-align within me. A different sort of
lassitude settles over my frame; if I had to define it, I
suppose it would be a reconciliation of my soul and body. Vossa
presses a kiss to my forehead, laughing a low sweet chuckle.
"Rich is the bloodmemory of our kind, Obi-Wan. You will carry
my legacy now, and never lose its taste. Qui-Gon's offerings
will carry a new sweetness for you."
I gently slip from her, trying to keep our skin touching; both
of us are faintly warm, and might pass for the living.
"I . . . thank you," is all I can mutter. Sleep is falling over
me like a quilt. Qui-Gon reaches over and pulls me to him,
tucking me against his ribs, under his arm. Vossa curls on his
other side, the three of us intertwined in a lover's knot of
arms and legs.
I sleep deeply.
After a few hours I am aware of Qui-Gon shifting, and I know he
is turning to Vossa, reaching for her. My heart is calm, my
mind at peace, and I keep my eyes closed, letting them make
love in slow tender rhythms. Vossa is not drinking him, but
loving him, giving back to the living man the only gift she
can. I am grateful for her consideration of him as more than
just a food source.
Qui-Gon's moans are baritone grunts in a counter rhythm to
Vossa's sighs. I smile into the darkness, suddenly awash in the
merging of their lust, aware that they are both a part of me
now, as much under my skin as my muscles or my veins. My body
tingles with a shallow echo of my master's climax, the pellucid
sweetness like the memory of sugar on the tongue.
In the morning, she is gone. Neither Qui-Gon nor I are
suprised; we speak without words, sharing the loss in glances
filled with understanding. On the table are fragrant rolls for
Qui-Gon. A small holo-projector sits near them, and I activate
it to see Vossa once more, her face, her lustrous hair now
loose and free.
"Jedi", she bows with courtly ghostly grace. "Your precious
gift is far beyond my means to ever repay. Qui-Gon Jinn, I take
with me your words and your generosity of spirit--your padawan
is blessed beyond his knowledge to have you."
Her phantom pauses and turns to address me, a crooked smile
across her features.
"Obi-Wan, I know our paths will cross again and leave you with
reluctance--we are of Blood now, and are linked until True
Death. Know this--the Dark Side will seek you out. Fight it, my
love. Walk your own way in the Force and be guided by the
goodness within you." She lifts her chin and mouths a soft kiss
in my direction as the hologram fades.
Crimson tears prickle at my eyes, but I refuse to shed any of
Vossa's blood, fighting to keep it within me. Qui-Gon's hand
rests on my shoulder in rough comfort and I look to him
gratefully.
"Flesh may die, beloved, but some bonds go beyond the grave,"
he reassures me with the serene smile I have come to rely on.
Stuffing the last of the rolls into an inner pocket, he leads
me out into the cool sunrise. The rain has washed the dust out
of the air.
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